Heartless
by JasTee
Summary: While investigating a gruesome murder in a decaying neighborhood, Horatio meets an intriguing woman who runs a community soup kitchen. While offering hope to the poor people in her community, Horatio begins to wonder if she will be able to offer him hope as well. But first there is evil to be dealt with, an evil more horrifying than any previously encountered by the lieutenant.
1. Chapter 1

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter One - Matters of the Heart

**_(Note to readers: we are re-posting the first 8 chapters of this story under the JASTEE writing team. We will publish one chapter each night until all 8 chapters have been re-posted. Chapter 9 will be a NEW chapter - so be on the look-out for it. Thanks to all of our readers - we appreciate your support. Jasmine and Teeheehee1234)_**

He stood in the large basement of the once imposing Saint Ignatius Catholic Church. The area in which the shabby, but still genteel sanctuary was located had been at one time a prosperous one, and the church had been one of the most important anchors of the once bustling, middle class neighborhood. But over time, the businesses near the church had slowly dried up and the formerly pretty homes had fallen into disrepair. Wealthier residents and merchants had long since moved to the newer, trendier parts of Miami, leaving in their wake an old neighborhood that was sad, broken down, decaying. Now, Saint Ignatius was the only reminder of the neighborhood's affluent past.

Horatio Caine removed his sunglasses and studied his surroundings. Painted on the basement's beige walls in large, cheerful red letters were the words: THE KITCHEN OF HOPE. Underneath in smaller, black script was a bible verse: 'As for me, I will always have hope... Ps. 71:14.'

_Hope_.

Horatio didn't see what hope there was for many of the room's occupants, filled as it was with men and women who appeared down on their luck. They looked weary and their faces were grim with disappointment. Their shoulders slumped forward with dejection as they waited in line to get the only hot meal they were likely to eat that day. His nose wrinkled at the slight stench of too many sweaty, unbathed bodies in the hot room, and he watched as earnest volunteers spooned mounds of mashed potatoes, slabs of meat loaf with gravy, string beans and hot dinner rolls onto waiting plates.

Inexpensive food, but hot. And nourishing.

Carrying their plates of food, the hungry men and women walked toward the long, scarred wooden tables, and sat down quickly, barely able to restrain themselves from hastily gulping down the food.

A woman of middle age, dressed in a plain, black dress and sensible shoes, and sporting a short black veil with a narrow strip of white around its edging, walked among the tables, pouring iced water and coffee into paper cups for her 'patrons.' Horatio caught her eye and beckoned to her.

The woman called another volunteer over, handed him the water pitcher and coffee pot, and walked to where Horatio was standing. She looked at him quizzically. "Something I can do for you, sir?" she asked, her voice and manner kind, but brisk.

"Yes ma'am," he said, pushing his jacket back from his hip, and displaying his lieutenant's badge. "I'm Lieutenant Caine and I'm with the MDPD's Crime Scene Investigation unit. There was a murder in this neighborhood overnight... my people are investigating."

"Ah, yes. I'd heard... a young woman, correct? Very sad," she replied. "Heart-breaking. Lieutenant, I'm Sister Mary-Martha."

"You run this soup kitchen?"

"I help. Can I ask what this is about?"

"Sister, I have two neighborhood witnesses who say that the last time they saw the victim - Theresa Lopez - was around eight o'clock last evening. She was standing outside the church, speaking to a man that neither witness was familiar with. Whatever had been said upset Ms. Lopez and she turned away from the man. Hours later, her body was found. She been murdered. It was not a pretty sight, Sister... it was brutal."

Horatio closed his eyes for a moment. He'd seen some pretty horrific things in his time as a law enforcement officer, and he was not one to be squeamish... but the sight of that beautiful, young Hispanic woman, left in the alley behind an old abandoned building, made his gorge rise. Someone had opened the girl up and removed her heart. She lay there, her open chest a bloody crater. Suppressing an inner shudder, Horatio looked at the nun who was observing him intently.

"Brutal," she said, her eyes distressed as she repeated Horatio's descriptor. "Yes, I can see the effects of the murder on you, Lieutenant. What can we do to help?"

Horatio pulled from the inside pocket of his jacket an artist's rendering of the man with whom Teresa Lopez had last been seen and handed it to the Sister.

"Do you think this is the man who murdered the girl?" she asked.

"He is a person of interest. We want to find him... talk to him. Does he look familiar to you, Sister? Perhaps he came here for a meal sometimes?"

Sister Mary-Martha studied the drawing. "It is not very clear, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Horatio agreed. It had been dark when the two neighborhood women had spotted the man with Lopez, and they had been standing on the other side of the street. Their recollections about his appearance had been vague, but it was all Horatio had at the moment. "Think hard, Sister... does the drawing remind you of anyone you've seen here, even slightly?"

She continued to study the drawing for several long seconds and then shook her head. Regretfully, she handed the drawing back to Horatio. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. He doesn't look familiar to me at all."

Disappointed, Horatio nodded and started to put the drawing back inside his jacket.

"But," she continued, "you may wish to speak with Catherine... I only help out with the kitchen a few times a week. Catherine is the heart and soul of the organization, and the founder. Would you like to meet her?"

"I would. Can you tell me where I can find her?"

"Right here... she's about to speak." The Sister pointed to a slightly raised platform in the center of the room where a tall, willowy brunette now stood, looking out upon the assemblage. The people had grown talkative as they ate their meal. Horatio heard a female somewhere behind him mutter, "Damned do-gooder."

Catherine's sapphire blue eyes darted about the room, and then looked down at a piece of paper she held in her hands. A lock of her short, dark brown hair fell over one eye, and Horatio watched as she unconsciously swept it back with a flick of her fingers. Something about the gesture touched him; it had a vulnerability to it that seemed at odds with the capable image the youngish woman projected.

Clearing her throat, she began to speak in a strong, musical voice. "Okay, okay, people... can I have your attention, please?"

The murmurings slowly stopped as the diners looked up at the determined woman. In the back of the basement, a gruff voice complained, "First the grub, then the sermon. Always the way... Here it comes."

Horatio saw that Catherine heard the remark, and watched as a smile flitted across her face. "Excuse me... who said that? Oh come on, you don't have to be afraid. Come on... who was it?"

Seated at a table in the very back of the room, a fifty-three year old African American painfully rose to his feet. Horatio could see he had some sort of physical impairment, and he was holding onto the table, as if to take pressure off a hurting body part.

"Hi Charlie," said Catherine grinning, her blue eyes dark with amusement. "I thought it was you. So, tell me - you enjoying the 'grub' tonight, if not the anticipated 'sermon?'"

The man had the grace to look abashed. "You know how it is, Sister Cat... a man's tired, hot, hungry. I was out lookin' for work all damn day - pardon me, ma'am - I mean I was lookin' for work all day. Nothing. Now all I want is a meal and a place to flop for the evenin' - don't want to hear no damned sermon - pardon me, ma'am... I mean, I don't want to hear no sermon."

The man painfully sat down and looked up at Catherine. There were rings of tiredness around his eyes. Watching her closely, Horatio could see the man's weariness touched Catherine.

"I know, Charlie. Look, people, I'll make it brief. I know you're tired and hungry. And I know you're dispirited. It's hard out there on the streets... No jobs to be found. Government programs being discontinued. Crime. Drugs. Seems sometimes that there isn't much hope. Isn't that right?

Dozens of pairs of eyes looked up at her, and several heads began nodding in agreement. "You speakin' the truth there, Sister!" a female voice called out. The heavy-set white woman sitting next to her chimed in, "That's right!"

"Well, I'm not going to let any of you slide into hopelessness. I'm going to be here every day, offering you a hearty meal. That's a promise. And for those of you who need a place to sleep tonight, we've set up some cots in another part of this basement. Now that's temporary, people. We're not running a hotel, but it's a place to sleep for a few days for those of you who need it.

"Now, I know of some work that some of you can do around here - won't pay much, but it just isn't about the money, is it? It's about having pride in yourself. A man... a woman... well, you need to have some sort of work. Everyone needs something to do."

"You think we haven't been looking for work?" demanded an embittered Latino. "There ain't no jobs out there. My wife, my baby - they're living with her parents because I can't find no work!"

Catherine nodded sympathetically. "I do know you've all been searching for some kind of work. I know it isn't easy! I have some contacts - know some people who can help some of you find some temporary work - yard work, repairs, custodial. That sort of thing."

"Temporary ain't no good, Sister Cat. That be B.S. We need real jobs; permanent jobs," called out another voice.

Turning in the caller's direction, she replied, "You take what you can get, and be glad for it. And then we'll work on 'permanent.' The important thing is to do something, to not get discouraged. Everybody needs to feel useful... like they have a purpose. A body needs work - the heart needs a mission. Your mission is to take whatever temporary work you can get, do the best you can... and not give up hope. Maybe some of these jobs will turn into permanent work. The important thing is you're building an employment history... that'll help you when this economy turns around. It puts you a notch up on those just sitting in the streets.

"I believe things are going to change soon. For the better. We're going through some dark times, but I think if we hang on, hang together, if we look out for each other and work together... we can make those good days come sooner. I know this in my heart.

"Let me help... let me help you help yourselves. And then, once you're finally settled, you help the next person. That's how it works."

"Pay it forward, huh?" yelled out Charlie.

"That's right, Charlie. Now, after you've eaten, I'd like to ask the following people to come forward..."

Tilting his head, Horatio studied "Sister Cat." There was something about her that intrigued him, and he wondered what her story was. And whether she really believed the platitudes she was selling to the poor folks surrounding her. _She's a nun_, he thought; _no doubt she does._

Fifteen minutes later, Horatio knocked on the old wooden door of one of the offices inside the church. "Come in," called the musical voice.

When Horatio walked into the room, the woman inside looked up. She had been entering data into a spreadsheet on her laptop. She gazed at the red-haired lieutenant for a moment, and her eyes flashed with interest and something else that was new to her. A friendly grin suddenly appeared on her face and she rose from behind the desk and offered Horatio her hand. "Lieutenant Caine?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am. Thank you for seeing me." He pointed back toward the door behind him. "With all the work you have out there, I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, Sister."

"Well, Sister Mary-Martha told me about that poor woman's death..."

"Murder," corrected Horatio. Catherine raised her brows. "I like to be precise, Sister."

"I understand. I like to be precise as well, Lieutenant. And, precisely, I'm not a 'sister.'"

Startled and a bit embarrassed, Horatio looked closely at her. The short brown hair, the lack of makeup, the plain black dress - he'd just assumed she was a nun. As if reading his mind, Catherine grinned again.

"Don't look so uncomfortable, Lieutenant. You're not the first to make that mistake."

"I, uh, assumed... the people out there... they, uh, well, they were calling you 'Sister Cat.'"

"Oh that... Well, look back here, Lieutenant," she said, laughing softly. She pointed to a small crate sitting on the floor behind her desk. Within the blanketed crate were four sleeping cats. One was obviously the mother, and three tiny fluff balls rested comfortably against her. Catherine placed her index finger against her lips as if to admonish Horatio to speak softly, and they moved away from the desk.

"I tend to collect stray cats... there are a lot of 'em around here, they're hungry, scared... I feel sorry for them."

Horatio tilted his head slightly, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. "Stray people, too, from what I've just observed."

Embarrassed, a soft, warm blush made its way across her cheeks.

"So," he continued, "if I can't address you as 'Sister," how do I address you?"

"I'm Catherine Kent."

"Okay... Catherine. And your job here is...?"

"My job here is to help. Help these people get back on their feet again... somehow. The church struggles economically, and they do what they can to stay afloat. One thing they do is to rent the basement out to me. I founded the Kitchen of Hope. I've had a good life, Lieutenant. My family has financial means. It's rather like that old Bible verse - 'to whom much is given, much will be expected.' I've been given a lot, Lieutenant."

Horatio nodded, "Paying it forward, Catherine?"

"Something like that. Now, what about you? How can I help _you_?"

For a brief moment, Horatio was confused. All thoughts of the investigation fled as he looked into Catherine's clear blue eyes. There was something about her that spoke to something inside him, but what was it?

"Lieutenant?" she repeated, her expression puzzled.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Chapter 2**

_**(Note: Apologies for interrupting the story for a note - I dislike doing so because I know how distracting it can be. Still, I thought I should mention that this story takes place an indeterminate time after the death of Marisol and events in Brazil - but before the appearance of Kyle and Julia. Thus, Kyle and Julia do not exist in this story's timeline. Horatio is, perhaps, in his early fifties.)**_

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Two - Minor Revelations

"Lieutenant Caine?" repeated the brunette. "How can I help you?"

Understanding that Catherine Kent was referring to the nature of his visit and not something more, Horatio gathered his thoughts. "I'd like you to take a look at this drawing. It's not very good, but maybe you'll notice something... maybe you've seen someone around here who looks like this guy. Witnesses saw him speaking to Theresa Lopez hours before she died."

Catherine took the drawing from Horatio and, studying it, slightly lowered her head. Horatio found himself staring at the soft hair curling about the nape of her neck, and experienced a moment of surprised delight when, lost in thought, she bit her pretty lower lip while concentrating on the paper in front of her. He suddenly wondered what it would be like to gently bite that sensitive flesh himself... to taste its sweetness. Bewildered by the direction his thoughts were taking, he mentally shook himself.

It had been some time since he'd last experienced such thoughts and it astonished him a bit. He didn't know this lady, and she wasn't really his type... not much like the women he'd been attracted to in the past. But there was something there... and he wasn't sure he liked it. Chemistry. Yes. Chemistry.

_And chemistry,_ _my friend,_ he warned himself, _can be a bitch._

In spite of the good advice, his eyes scanned the graceful, slender form in front of him. Amused at the droll direction his thoughts were taking, he momentarily wondered if this woman he'd previously thought a nun had someone in her life. Now that he studied her more closely, he saw that the plain, black dress didn't quite conceal the nice figure hiding beneath it.

Catherine looked up. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. This person doesn't look familiar to me at all."

"He was seen here, outside Saint Ignatius. I thought, perhaps, he'd come to the Kitchen... for a meal."

She looked again at the drawing. Finally, shaking her head, she returned it to Horatio. "Sorry - I can't recall him... but the drawing isn't all that good. The thing is, Lieutenant, he may have been here even though I don't recognize him. So many people come and go through the Kitchen and unless they are memorable - like Charlie - I have little recollection of them.

"Some that come here to eat are quiet, sullen; they have no desire for idle conversation. They're depressed. They want a meal. Afterward, if they have a place to sleep, they go to it. It's not like we take attendance or anything like that."

"Maybe you should," said Horatio, disappointed at the dead end.

She smiled understandingly. "I know... I'm not being much help, am I? But we're here to help the community... not police it. And if we did have a more structured system that tracked the people who used our service... well, the truth is, many of them would rather go hungry than have to sign in or do a roll call for some food.

"The only time we keep names is when we provide temporary work or refer certain people to employers. We have to in those cases. But, as I say, most folks come in sad, depressed, hungry... they don't do or say anything memorable that would make them stand out. They eat and then just drift out of here."

Horatio nodded. "Okay, point taken." He watched as her brows drew together and she bit that bottom lip again. "Catherine, is there something else?"

"It's probably nothing..."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"You said the man had been seen talking to Ms. Lopez outside the church?"

"Right."

"Well, it's probably nothing... but a few nights ago, I had stayed late to get through some of the Kitchen's paperwork... I guess it was after nine that I finally left the church. As I was leaving the building, I had an uneasy feeling. I felt someone was watching me, following me. But every time I turned around, there was no one there. Finally, I chalked it up to nerves and walked quickly on my way - and things were fine. But... it was creepy."

Horatio frowned. "Do you often leave the church at night... alone?"

"No, only occasionally."

"This isn't the best neighborhood, you realize. You should always walk with someone."

Catherine smiled. "Yes, you're right... but things sometimes happen that prevent that. Anyway, I can take care of myself."

"Perhaps Ms. Lopez thought the same."

Catherine's smile vanished. "Look, Lieutenant, I can't afford to be afraid of my neighborhood. These are my people... this is where I work, where I live. The people here... they know me, look out for me."

"You just told me that people come and go that you never recognize..."

Confused, Catherine paused. "Well, yes... but..."

Horatio waited.

"Okay, you got me," she said. "In the future, I guess I won't be leaving the building alone in the evenings."

"Good." _One less thing to worry about_, he thought.

Watching him, Catherine's eyes began to twinkle. "You know, I really can take care of myself. I've got some moves, Mister."

A smile appeared on Horatio's face. "Really? What sort of moves?"

"I took a self-defense class. I know a few basic moves... I think I could take somebody down who messed with me - at least long enough to get away from him. I learned a long time ago that a woman needs to know how to defend herself."

"Good for you... good for you. But don't let that go to your head - it's not wise to take chances.

"Do me a favor, keep this drawing. Take a close look at your people as they come in for meals. If anyone looks anything like the drawing, call me. If anyone acts strangely... looks strange... call me. And if you ever feel that someone is following you, definitely call me."

Horatio took a card from his jacket pocket and placed it on her desk. "Here's my office number. Don't be afraid to use it."

He walked toward the door and suddenly stopped. Slowly, he turned around and walked back. Looking into her eyes, he raised his brows, surprised at himself, and shrugged.

He leaned over and picked up a pen laying on her desk, and wrote something else on the card, and then straightened up. "I put my cell number on the back - don't be afraid to use that either... day or night."

Abruptly, he turned toward the door of the office and left.

After a moment, Catherine picked up the card. _Horatio Caine... what an odd name. Odd man. Perhaps it was his work that made him so intense, so focused. And grim._

Still, there had been a moment or two when she caught a bit of amusement dancing behind those serious eyes, and a wryness that she found appealing.

Briefly, she wondered what it would feel like to have those intense eyes focused on her for reasons other than police business. She shook the thought away, laughing at herself. _He thought I was a nun! Not a very flattering judgment._

Placing the card back on the desk, she pulled from her drawer a small compact mirror and looked critically at her reflection. _Well, you're no glamour girl for sure... nice cheekbones... and a little lipstick and eye makeup would help._ It had been a long time since she cared enough to think about makeup... the last time had been...

Her mind unwillingly drifted back to another man she had once cared enough to dress up for - and how she came to need those classes in self-defense. Shuddering, she pushed the thought back into the recesses of her mind. It was ancient history; no need to go there.

Her slender fingers pushed back the short, soft waves from her large blue eyes. People always told her she had beautiful eyes. She wondered if he noticed...

Suddenly irritated with herself, she shoved the small mirror back into her desk. _Get a grip! You're acting like an infatuated sixteen year old... and, no doubt, he's forgotten what you look like already. If he even noticed..._

Disgusted, she faced her laptop and again began tallying up the day's food inventory. Softly, in the background, she heard the mewling of one of the dreaming kittens and the sweet, gentle sound soothed her. After several minutes, she forgot about the handsome lieutenant - and the card laying on her desk.

Leaving the church, Horatio slid his sunglasses on and walked the several blocks to where the murder had occurred. His team had pretty much cleared away all evidence of the crime and were back at the lab. He looked around the dingy alley, surrounded by boarded up houses and some sort of abandoned building... a diner maybe.

He looked at his watch. Seven o'clock and starting to get dark. _Won't need the sunglasses much longer,_ he mused.

"Horatio," called a familiar voice.

"Calleigh... you're still here. Why aren't you back at the lab?"

"Just looking around," said the pretty blond, "talking to some of the people in the neighborhood."

"Find out anything?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Neighborhoods like these... well, the people aren't real talkative. They're afraid of getting involved. Everyone gets a convenient sort of amnesia."

Horatio sighed. "Yes... well. Perhaps Tom will have something for us."

"This is big time creepy, Horatio. I don't think I've ever seen anything like it... no sign of the heart that was removed..."

"Which means our twisted friend may still have it. But why?"

"Souvenir? Fetish?"

"Maybe. Or perhaps he's part of a cult... and this involves some sort of religious rite..."

"Satanic?"

"I hope not, but can't rule it out."

Calleigh shivered. "You know, I once thought of being a kindergarten teacher."

Horatio glanced at her, surprise evident on his face. "Really?"

"Mm... but, much as I like kids, I thought I might get bored after a while. Times like this, though... well, a little boredom doesn't sound so bad."

Horatio grinned. "Come on, let's get back to the lab." They started walking away from the crime scene. "You! A kindergarten teacher! You'd have missed all those lovely weapons in the vault at CSI."

"I suppose that's true. Did you find out anything at the soup kitchen? Anyone seen our guy?"

"No... seems they get too many people coming and going to pay much attention. I left a drawing there... hopefully, they'll start looking more closely at their diners.

"Interesting woman running the place, though..."

"Catherine Kent?"

Startled, Horatio glanced at her. "You know her name?"

"Sure. Didn't you?"

"No - not until today. How do you know her?"

"Well, I don't know 'know' her; I only know about her. You've heard of the Kent family right? Old money... lawyers."

Horatio thought. "Kent, Barton & Craig - those lawyers?"

"The very ones," smiled Calleigh. "That firm is seventy-five years old, with offices throughout the South. Pretty conservative; mainstream. The first Mr. Kent started the firm, and then partnered with Barton & Craig. Apparently, there's a lot of marrying between the families of the partners, and a lot of the children have gone into the firm. Catherine Kent is the 'wonky' family member."

"'Wonky?' In what way?"

"Didn't go into the practice of law - although she graduated from Harvard Law School. It was expected that she'd join her granddaddy's firm. Instead, she became a do-gooder - a real social engineer, from what I hear. Family isn't real happy with her. She's very well off - in addition to money on her father's side, her mother was an heiress of some sort - coffee, I think. Anyway, this was in the Miami gossip magazines. Surprised you didn't know."

"There's a lot I don't know, apparently."

Calleigh grinned. "Guess you won't be making fun of my interest in gossip from now on, hey, boss?"

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Chapter 3**

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Three - Eventide

_Saint Ignatius Catholic Church, 9:15 p.m._

Catherine Kent glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. _Damn_, she thought, noting the time. It was well after nine o'clock.

She rose from her desk and walked toward the sole window in the small room that functioned as her office in the old, decaying church. She had to stand on her toes to see out the tiny rectangular casement, so close was it to the room's ceiling. Wrought iron bars protected the glass and served as a deterrent against break-ins. She had made an attempt to soften the dismal atmosphere created by the heavy black bars. Catherine had hung a cafe rod above the narrow space between the window sash and the ceiling, and thus a white, ruffled cotton valance draped itself cheerfully across the top of the window.

Brushing back a lock of dark brown hair from her eyes, she peered out onto the street. The view from the window was not inspiring; it was level with the sidewalk, and during the day afforded anyone caring to look a glimpse of scurrying feet, ankles and legs hastily rushing past the window.

Catherine frowned. There was no activity on the street at present. It was dark outside. In spite of her best intentions, she had lost track of time. She listened intently, hoping to hear the sound of others who might still be inside the building, but she heard nothing. Except for Geraldine, the mama cat, and her sleeping kittens in the crate behind Catherine's desk, Catherine was alone.

Turning from the window, a yawn escaped her. She was tired and shadows of weariness ringed her deep blue eyes. The day had been eventful. Though she had worked diligently, she had barely made a dent in the paperwork on her desk or addressed any of her many emails. She had planned to leave the office before sunset. Too many tasks, however, had prevented her from doing so. There were always so many things that required her attention: accounts to settle, food orders, inventory checks.

Then, too, were the appointments she had to schedule with the CEOs of large corporations; they were her best source for charitable giving. She had become quite proficient in the fine art of begging for contributions, and she did not shy away from using her family connections to get her foot in the proverbial door of Miami's wealthiest citizens.

She sighed as she considered the busy schedule that faced her the next day. Resigned to another night spent amongst paperwork scattered on her bed, Catherine began to gather up the papers on her desk. They would be going home with her.

She worked harder than many of the attorneys in her family's law firm ~ and that was no joke in spite of her family's condescending humor at the path she had chosen. Family occasions were rife with snide remarks at her expense. 'Little Ms. Do-Gooder' they called her, ridiculing her desire to help the less fortunate.

They never understood what it was like to feel vulnerable... to worry where one's next meal was coming from. They did not know the fear and anxiety experienced by those out of work, without resources. Her family and friends were isolated from such realities by fat bank accounts and aristocratic pedigrees.

Not so for Catherine. She might possess the pedigree and the trust fund, but she understood the feeling of being vulnerable, and the uncertainty when life unexpectedly knocked one for a loop.

A second, deeper sigh escaped her. Thoughts of her family always depressed her. Worse, thoughts of them often led to thoughts of _him_... frightful thoughts.

She pushed aside the unpleasant memories. She had long ago discovered the best tonic for fear and depression was hard work. It made her feel less hopeless. Several years ago, she had been lost and afraid, unwilling to step outside her wealthy condo in Coral Gables. She learned through experience that purposeful work kept the demons at bay. She finally gathered her courage and sold the condo, which had been more of a prison than a home... and now she lived in town, close to the aging church where her food kitchen was located.

Picking up the pile of paperwork, she began to transfer it to her leather satchel. She paused when a card fell from the pile and fluttered slowly to the floor. Bending down, Catherine rescued the errant rectangle and brought it closer to her eyes for examination.

It was the business card given to her by Lieutenant Caine.

A small smile played about Catherine's lips as she fiddled with the edges of the card and thought about the lieutenant. Against her will, he had extracted a promise from her that she wouldn't leave the office alone after dark.

_It sure didn't take me long to break that promise_, she thought wryly. Her mind turned to the murder of the young girl that had occurred not far from the church, and she cursed herself for her foolishness in staying so late at the office.

Recalling her conversation with Horatio and his stern admonishment that she not walk alone through the neighborhood after dark, she grew disturbed. Suddenly, she found herself wishing for a companion to walk alongside her as she made her way home. Without much hope, she abruptly walked out into the hallway and raised her voice in hopeful greeting. "Hello? Sister Mary-Martha? Father Ralph? Is anyone still here?"

Silence.

It was as she thought. Everyone had left for the evening. _Well, there is nothing to be done about it now, _she thought_._

She glanced again at the card in her hands. She wondered how the lieutenant might react if she were to call him and ask him to walk her home. She had his cell number... and she would not mind holding onto his arm as they walked together in the velvety darkness of a summer's evening. He had made more of an impression on her than she liked to admit. It wasn't just that he was handsome, though God knows the red hair and bright blue eyes were striking. It was something more. He was strong in a _good_ way. An honest way.

She had known another man who had also been handsome, who had been strong... but not in a good way. She felt a sudden chill run down her spine and she turned her thoughts away from that man. He was her past. He couldn't hurt her now.

Should she call the lieutenant? Play the damsel in distress? She laughed softly to herself. _Not likely! _He would think her a complete ninny ~ and rightfully so. A grown woman being afraid of the dark! This was _her_ neighborhood; she would not live in fear. She started to shove Horatio's card inside her desk drawer, but then thought twice and instead tossed it inside her satchel.

Determined to cast aside her fears and the phantoms from her past, she closed the office door firmly behind her. As she walked down the dimly lit hallway and up the stairs toward the door that led out onto the street, she thought again of the murder of Theresa Lopez and the drawing of the suspect that Horatio had left with her. She shuddered to think that such a gruesome murder took place not far from her soup kitchen.

The fear escalated when she considered that the man in the drawing might have been one of the homeless men her kitchen served. She recalled again the uneasiness she had felt a few nights ago. She had mentioned to Horatio the creepy feeling she'd experienced, the sense that someone was watching her as she walked home alone in the dark. Yet, there had been no one there when she turned to look. At the time, she had dismissed the feeling as the product of an overactive imagination.

_But now?_ Not so much...

She reached deep into her satchel and her hand closed possessively around the small object inside. Feeling the cold metal pressed firmly against her palm comforted her.

Catherine had not been speaking idly when she told Horatio that she could take care of herself. She had more than just a few self-defense moves to stop a would-be assailant... she had a small caliber pistol, and she knew how to use it. More important, she was not afraid to use it ~ if she had to.

She was no shrinking violet. She had learned a rough lesson years ago: stand up for yourself! Fight back immediately, and ask questions later. If she _had_ to, she could use that gun.

_He_ had taught her that lesson. It was a lesson she would never forget.

That was something the handsome lieutenant did not yet know about her. She was strong. Very strong. She'd been tested... and survived.

Before stepping outside the door, she looked up and down the street, her hand securely wrapped around the small gun in her bag. Seeing nothing, she relaxed her grip. She then stepped outside, and locked the door behind her.

Horatio's words about walking on the streets at night had flustered her. The gun, however, calmed her down. She again began to believe she had imagined that feeling of being watched a few nights ago. She had no such feeling now. As for the murdered young woman, it was a terrible thing and she hoped the lieutenant would capture the monster responsible. However, she wouldn't change her way of life because of one unfortunate girl... or for an overly cautious police lieutenant, no matter how attractive he was.

_Miami-Dade Correctional Facility, 10:00 p.m._

The agitated racket pouring out of the cells abruptly stilled as Fat Jack Tolliver made his way down the long, harshly lit prison corridor. Accompanying his slow, menacing gait was the chilling sound of a large, hollow pipe, its iron heaviness making jarring contact with each of the solid metal bars it encountered.

Reaching the center of the passageway, Fat Jack paused and scanned the lengthy row of cells with casual contempt. Standing next to him was a younger man; however, the eyes of the cells' inhabitants fixed collectively on Tolliver.

Fat Jack was a force to reckon with, at least as dangerous as and ten times wilier than the convicts under his care.

He was dressed in a crisp, smartly ironed uniform and he wore it with dandified grace. The plump white hands that lovingly caressed the iron pipe displayed well-manicured fingers, with shiny, carefully trimmed nails.

He was a big man, almost corpulent, and he had a full head of thick white hair that quarreled with his lively, florid complexion. His shrewd eyes, as green as the Emerald Isle he hailed from, stared watchfully out of a face that wore an affable expression. It was only when a man looked closer at Fat Jack that he noted the cunning in those careful eyes, and how they contrasted with the mask of geniality he wore.

Suddenly, a thick, belly laugh bubbled up out of Fat Jack and escaped into the ominously quiet corridor.

"Good evening, dearies!" he called out, his slight Irish accent echoing down the long aisle. The accent's singsong cadence contrasted roguishly with the corridor's thick and heavy quiet. "And how are you, my darlings?"

He grinned as he heard the wave of low, surly mumblings begin to break from the bleak, gray cells.

"What's all this, dearies? Is the room service not up to your liking?" he mocked.

Turning his attention from the cells, Tolliver looked briefly at his companion, a too-thin young man whose uniform hung loosely from his body, giving him the appearance of a pallid scarecrow. More boy than man, the young guard had a sprinkling of acne across his cheekbones and forehead. He was forgettable. In fact, most times Fat Jack Tolliver did forget he was there. He frowned as he watched the young man's throat convulse nervously.

"You okay, Billy?" asked Tolliver, squinting at the boy.

Before Billy could answer, a mocking voice yelled, "Ol Billy, he be fine; he just chicken-shit. He looks so scared, I bet he piss his pants. Hey, boy - your mama know you're out this late?"

Guffaws of rude laughter erupted as the young guard cringed, causing Tolliver to look at him with contempt.

Another voice called out, this one an affected falsetto tinged with a Hispanic accent. "Hey, sweet boy, you want yourself some fun? You come inside here, spend a little quality time with Manuel - I give you some special fun, sweetheart - give you lots of love and romance. You beg for more. You like that, sweet boy?"

Tolliver's genial aspect faded as he watched Billy sway and blink his eyes nervously.

"For the love of Christ, lad, get a goddam hold on yourself," he whispered angrily in the young man's ear. "You let them mess with your head like this, you're never gonna last here."

But Billy was unable to respond. He tried to form a few words, but they wouldn't emerge. He looked helplessly at Fat Jack. The boy was not sure whom he feared more: the prisoners... or Tolliver.

"Go on, get back to the office," said Tolliver. "You aren't any good here." He shook his head with disgust as the young man almost scampered down the hallway to the crude sound of smacking lips and mocking invitations for romance.

_T'is a goddam lightweight, he is_, thought Tolliver, watching the retreating guard. _Only got this job because he's the warden's idiot nephew._

"Hey, Fat Boy," jeered another voice as the laughter continued, "lose your little playmate?"

Tolliver turned his face toward the cells' inhabitants, and stood there quietly, grinning with seeming good will. Slowly, the laughter began to subside as the hecklers studied the beaming man before them.

When he was certain he held their attention, he spoke in a good-natured growl. "Okay, 'girls,' lights out in ten minutes - and then it'll be time for you to be taking your beauty sleep."

Tolliver laughed gleefully as a string of disgruntled insults and imaginative curses about his parentage and his mother's morals were bandied his way.

_God! His lads! How he loved them!_

Nothing gave him more pleasure than engaging in an exchange of insults with the losers under his watch.

_As long as they understood who was boss..._

A muttered curse about the questionable circumstances of his birth rose singularly above the general noise, and Tolliver approached the cell where the owner of that voice resided.

Inside, a tall, thin Black man leaned languidly against the heavy iron bars, and glared at Tolliver. Hatred leaped from hostile brown eyes to sly green ones.

Suddenly, the prisoner's face split into an insulting grin, displaying a gold crown over the front tooth that he had cracked several years back in a nasty fight.

"You're a mighty big man with that pole in your hand... How 'bout you let me outta here, we do a little one-on-one, Fat Boy?"

A sunny smile lit up Tolliver's face as he gazed at the inmate, and he replied amiably, "Well, well. And look who it is. Good evening, friend Cicero. The top of the evening to you, lovely."

The corner of Cicero's mouth turned down with hatred. He allowed his eyes to study Tolliver, making a slow visual journey of the length and breadth of the guard. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Tolliver's substantial lower belly.

"So... you piss your pants, Fat Boy? I smell somethin' rank. I think it's comin' from you... or maybe that be your natural smell." His voice lingered over the word 'natural' so that it came out with cheek as 'natch - ur - rel.'

Tolliver burst into laughter, and he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Ah, Cicero... _such wit!_"

Cicero tilted his head, as if considering. "You know, Fat Boy, you ever think that maybe you're usin' that pole 'cause you ain't got no real equipment inside your pants? Maybe you're compensatin' somehow for what nature ain't gave you."

In response, Tolliver paused before speaking, a look of studied contemplation on his face.

"Well, now, Cicero... I did not realize you were reading Dr. Freud in your spare time. T'is a fine thing, dearie. A man needs to better himself. Help himself understand the human condition."

Slowly, a different smile began to materialize on the fat man's face, one a great deal less genial than the one he had been wearing. Cicero, despite being an alleged student of the 'human condition,' failed to notice the change in Tolliver's attitude.

"So, you jerk off while you be holdin' that pole in one hand and whatever it is 'neath all that fat in the other?"

"Cicero, Cicero..." began Tolliver, almost regretfully, his voice soft and menacing as he moved closer to the cell.

"You know, lovey, I must admit to always having had a certain curiosity about your sainted mother. Was she, perhaps, a student of the Classics?"

Confused, but on his guard at the mention of his mother, Cicero's face contorted with hatred. "The hell you say?"

"For example," continued Tolliver, as if Cicero hadn't spoken, "your name. 'Cicero.' T'is a fine name. Did you know, dearie, t'was the name of one of Ancient Rome's greatest orators. People would come from far away to hear the great man hold forth. Would you be knowing what an 'orator' is, lad? Well, darlin', t'is someone who speaks real pretty.

"Now, this Cicero of Ancient Rome, well, t'was assassinated, he was.

"And do you know why, dearie? T'was mainly because he didn't know when to keep his fat, fuckin' mouth shut. You'll want to be bearing that in mind, love."

The prisoner grabbed at the cell's bars, spitting out, "The shit you say, man!"

"Yes, I can see evidence of your brilliant elocution; t'is almost a laser-like connection to Rome's magnificent speaker, for sure." Tolliver laughed delightedly at the look of frustration on the inmate's face.

"Funny, isn't it? Thinking your sainted mother a student of the Classics! Rich, isn't it, Cicero?"

Loudly for the benefit of the other prisoners, Tolliver sang out, "I'm thinking our Cicero was most likely named after some road sign his dear old mother saw while she lay in the backseat of some beat-up old Caddie, her legs spread wide, and her heels pressed up against the roof of the car!"

Enraged, Cicero growled, "You let me out of this cell, dog, and I show you somethin' - won't be no fuckin' road sign either!"

With a panther-like grace that belied his stoutness, Tolliver moved quickly toward the iron bars of Cicero's cell and shoved his rosy face close. His eyes cold, he spat out, "You listen to me, dearie, and you listen good: you ever threaten me again and, by God, I'll be stringing your nuts into a necklace you can wear around your scrawny neck. Now, would you be having anything further to say to me?"

There were moments when Fat Jack Tolliver's mask of merry geniality gave way. This was one of those moments. Behind the good-natured façade beat a heart as black as most of those inside the cells he guarded, and a disposition at least as deadly.

When Fat Jack dropped the pose, a wise man knew to swallow his insults and his threats. It didn't take long before the smarter inmates learned this, and knew the signs to watch for. There were always a few, though, who needed to learn the lesson. And some, who needed a refresher course.

Cicero frowned at the white man and took his measure.

_Crazy-ass pecker,_ he thought, and decided to leave the battle for another day. He gave Tolliver his best glare, and then he sauntered over to his cot and lay down, turning his face toward the wall.

Tolliver grinned with satisfaction and backed away from the cell. "Just as I thought. Now that's a good girl," he said dismissively, slapping the pipe against the palm of his hand, and continuing his way down the corridor.

It was silent now, and the gentle slap of the pole against human flesh sounded in the eerie quiet. Tolliver liked it like this, when one of his 'girls' got out of hand and he could use the strength of his will to force them back in line. He liked it when the corridor went silent; it was proof his girls had learned a valuable lesson.

_He was Fat Jack Tolliver and he feared no one, and, by God, they would be wise to remember it!_

His good humor once more restored, Fat Jack continued down the corridor, again dragging the pipe against the prison bars. The grating noise the iron pipe made clashed with the carefree tune Tolliver whistled. The subdued angry mutterings of the prisoners as he passed each cell delighted him. Nothing made Tolliver happier than seeing his darlings sullen and frustrated. He knew they hated him ~ and he reveled in their hatred.

Finally, he came to a cell at the end of the corridor and stopped. He looked at the man inside, sitting quietly on the edge of the prison cot. His posture erect, his hands resting lightly on his knees, the man stared unseeingly at a spot on the gray wall facing him. He seemed oblivious to both Tolliver and his surroundings.

Fat Jack tilted his head, studying the inmate's profile.

He was a handsome man. His nose and brow were well formed, his chin strong, his hair thick, black and wavy. He was tall and powerfully built, and wore his prison jumpsuit with certain panache.

_Aye, but he is a weird one_, thought Tolliver, who found the prisoner enigmatic. Fat Jack had no trouble figuring out most of his darlings, but this fellow was different, and Tolliver found himself both repelled and fascinated by him.

He reminded Fat Jack of a King Cobra. Tolliver remembered watching an old National Geographic special about the deadly animal; he was a magnificent beast, truly worthy of the royal title.

The imposing reptile was known to position himself silently, and remain as still as a statue. Patiently, he'd wait, watching his prey approach. When his prey was fully in sight, the animal would then rise up a good third of his body, his neck hooding out on both sides, and strike suddenly and repeatedly at the creature foolish enough to approach.

Tolliver chuckled to himself; it was a good comparison, the snake and the inmate.

Determined to get a reaction out of the man, Fat Jack rapped his pipe twice against the iron bars, and the sound rang out loudly in the silent corridor.

"Hey, dearie, Avon calling!" He laughed at his own feeble joke, but grew quickly annoyed at the inmate's continuing lack of response.

Frowning, his amiability now gone, Tolliver snarled at the prisoner. "Hey, dearie, did you not hear me? It's good evenin' I'm sayin' to you. Do you not have ears that work? Is it a kind word you'd be denying your host?"

Finally, there was movement inside the cell.

The man slowly turned his attention away from the wall and directed a basilisk gaze toward his tormentor. A chill went up Fat Jack Tolliver's spine as he looked into the eyes of the inmate. His were arresting eyes - pale blue, almost devoid of color, and fringed with thick black lashes. The contrast of the black lashes against the nearly colorless eyes was disconcerting: the eyes appeared almost blank, as if there were no soul behind them.

A dreadful smile stretched across the inmate's face. Softly he said, "Good evening, Mr. Tolliver. I've been waiting for you."

_Horatio's House, 11:00 p.m. _

Horatio unlocked the door to his house after taking a keen look at his surroundings. Experience had taught him to take nothing for granted, especially this late at night. He entered the house and walked straight through the living room and into the bedroom, dropping his badge on the bureau as he passed by.

_God, it's late_, he thought, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto a side chair.

He carefully removed his weapon from its holster, and then placed it on the nightstand near his bed. His weapon was never out of reach, not even when he was sleeping. There was always the chance that he might quickly have need of it - even in the middle of the night.

That, too, he had learned from experience.

He sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes and removing his socks. _Damn but he was tired!_ He and the team had worked until 8:30, trying to get caught-up on the several cases they were working. Afterward, Calleigh and Eric suggested they grab Frank and get a bite to eat at the local watering hole known for its Mojitos and burgers. Calleigh was the Mojito girl; the rest of them had nursed beers over the grease-plate special.

Horatio had tried to pay attention to the conversation around him; he was usually pretty good at turning off the events of the day. This time it was different.

Memories of the sight of the murdered Theresa Lopez had stayed with him all through the evening, intruding upon his time with his friends. The murder creeped him out. It had all the signs of being a cult murder ~ a particularly nasty one.

Rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, his thoughts drifted back to his brief session with Catherine Kent.

Calleigh had classified Catherine as the 'wonky' member of her family. Well, he could see it. There was something odd about a woman who would leave behind the money and prestige associated with a family like the Kents. And for what? To hide out in some cubbyhole in a nearly deserted church in a rundown part of town? It _was_ wonky. Certainly it was odd.

There was something odd, too, about the way Catherine Kent had affected him.

Once he had gotten past the Plain Jane façade, he found himself attracted to her. She was a pretty woman who chose for some reason to downplay her assets. What was her story? And why did he care?

Schoolmarms, Sunday school teachers and do-gooders had never been his style. Still weren't. But _she_ had a back-story; he was certain of it. And a part of him very much wanted to discover what it was.

**To be continued.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Chapter 4**

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter 4 - Special Delivery

_The next morning..._

The sharp, pungent odor of disinfectant assailed Horatio's nostrils even before he entered Tom Loman's domain.

The medical examiner stood in a corner of the large, brightly lit room. He was scrubbing his soapy hands under the slender column of water which streamed from the faucet into a stainless steel sink. Latex gloves that he had earlier stripped off lay haphazardly at the bottom of the sink, still covered in blood and other interesting matter. Within the sink, whorls of reddish brown water coupled with bits of jellied pulp slowly circled the drain before beginning a final, syrupy descent down the wide-mouthed pipe.

"Tom, what do you have for me?" asked Horatio as the doctor briskly shook water from his hands and then reached for a paper towel to dry them.

Loman glanced in Horatio's direction and sighed. "This is a grisly one, Lieutenant. Beautiful girl... breaks my heart. Your killer left her face intact." He pointed vaguely in the direction of the cold steel table where the young woman lay, a large white cloth now draped over her chest and midsection.

Tossing the used towel into a trash receptacle, Loman's eyes looked directly at Horatio. "I just completed the autopsy... everything will be in my report and on your desk tomorrow morning."

"Give me the barebones version now, Tom."

"Barebones, huh? Okay, Lieutenant, here's the barebones: that girl was still alive when someone cut out her heart. At the time of extraction, the heart was still beating."

"What?" Horatio's brows rose in surprise. During his years as a law enforcement officer, Horatio had experienced his share of horrors, but this was a new and bizarre twist. "How can you tell?"

"There are certain physical indications - it's all in my report. But there isn't any doubt: Ms. Lopez was alive when the killer removed her heart."

It took Horatio a moment to digest Loman's words as well as the lurid picture conjured up by them. He walked toward the body and gazed into the girl's face. _You didn't deserve this_, he thought. Tom was right; she was beautiful. He hated thinking what her remaining moments on the planet must have been like.

After several seconds, he turned away and frowned. "There's something I don't understand... her chest was bloody, but not the surrounding area. Shouldn't there have been a lot more blood at the scene?"

"Well, of course, there should have... you don't cut a beating heart out of someone without a pool of the stuff. Unless..." Loman's words trailed off as he looked up at the ceiling while considering what he was going to say next.

"Unless?" prompted Horatio.

The doctor met Horatio's eyes. "_Unless_ you know what you're doing. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing. There's a certain elegance to his technique."

"Elegance," repeated Horatio, staring again into the face of the dead girl. "That's an odd word for it, Doctor."

Loman shrugged. "Not really. The technique your killer utilized was spare and knowledgeable."

"You're telling me the perpetrator is a surgeon?"

"I'd say so... is or _was_."

Horatio thought about this. "Hm. Still, there should have been blood at the scene..."

"Yes... at the scene and on the killer."

"And yet," said Horatio, "everything was clean. There was no blood."

Loman said nothing, watching the lieutenant.

"Which means we have a second crime scene."

"That would be my guess," said Loman.

"Okay..." Lost in thought, Horatio absently rubbed the back of his neck. "Witnesses report last having seen the girl standing outside Saint Ignatius Church, talking with an unidentified man. She appeared shaken by their conversation, and quickly moved away. Let's assume he's our perp... So he follows her away from the church... perhaps down a dark street..."

"And perhaps he uses chloroform to subdue her," interrupted Loman. "Traces of it were found in her blood and stomach."

Horatio nodded. "Okay, so he follows her, waits for an opportunity to confront her... somewhere dark and isolated... he uses the chloroform to render her unconscious. What then? Takes her to another place to remove the heart? A place where he wouldn't be disturbed... where perhaps his instruments are.

"A second crime scene," he mused, "and one likely to be pretty bloody. It would be a place where he'd feel safe while he went about his business. It would have to be quiet... off the beaten-track. Maybe an abandoned building... where the girl's struggles wouldn't be overheard by others.

"Any indications whether she ever regained consciousness?" asked Horatio.

"I found residue of adhesive about her lips."

"So he used some sort of tape to muffle any sounds she made. That might indicate she was conscious or that he feared she would regain consciousness and cry out. Did you find any trace on the body?"

"She was pretty clean, Lieutenant. Clinically clean." Loman pointed toward the dead girl's hands and fingers. "Notice the slight inflammation on her palms and the blistering around the fingertips? The assailant was very careful - the extremities and trunk were wiped down with a solution of sodium hypochlorite, the application heaviest around the hands and fingers."

"Bleach? Damn... well, that will certainly screw any evidence of trace.

"But why was she abducted, murdered, and then brought back just a few streets from where she was taken? What's the connection? Why not simply dispose of the body elsewhere?"

Loman turned away. He realized Horatio was thinking aloud and no response was required of him.

"And the heart - where is it? What did he do with it?"

"Maybe he ate it," said the doctor matter-of-factly as he picked up the clipboard with his sheet of the day's scheduled autopsies. He checked off Lopez's name, and then looked up at Horatio. "You know, there are people who have a fetish for the taste of human flesh and organs. Maybe our Ms. Lopez had the unfortunate luck to have met up with one of them."

"Maybe," said Horatio doubtfully. "That still doesn't explain why he returned the girl's body to the location where he abducted her. If it was... if his intention was to..." Horatio frowned, unable to finish the thought for a moment. Feeling queasy, he swallowed hard, and then tried again.

"If the idea was to... to consume the heart, then why bring the body back to its original location? Why not keep it? What about her other organs - any missing?"

Loman shook his head. "No, the other organs are still intact."

"Why wouldn't he keep the body and..." Again Horatio broke off the sentence. He struggled with his thoughts, repelled by the direction in which they were going.

The doctor raised his brows. "Why wouldn't he keep the body and harvest the organs for future meals? Is that what you were going to ask?"

"Yes. Would he be so particular in his tastes that he'd only be interested in the heart? Toss everything else out? Even so, that's just it: he didn't just toss the body aside. He very carefully returned it to its original location... careful not to disturb the face so we'd be able to easily identify her. "

Horatio's eyes returned again to the body of Theresa Lopez. His brows drew together in a troubled 'V' over his forehead and he tilted his head slightly to study the girl's face.

"No," he continued after a moment, "I don't think he saw this girl as a meal, Tom. I think she is a 'calling card.' He's _talking_ to us, Doctor. We need to figure out what it is he is saying."

Loman smiled, his face taking on an almost beatific expression. "No doubt you will, Lieutenant, no doubt you will.

"Look, Horatio, I have another 'guest' to tend to - a floater. Likely to be a lot nastier to autopsy than that lovely young thing over there... interested in watching?"

Horatio knew when he was not wanted. For the first time since entering the medical examiner's turf, he grinned. "I think not... I'll leave you to your work, Doctor. I've some of my own to attend to."

_Nine thirty, a.m., Miami-Dade Correctional Facility..._

Fat Jack Tolliver was not a happy man.

He was confused and disturbed. Moreover, he was frightened - an emotion foreign to him. He had the creeping sense that someone – something? – was observing him. Of course, no one was - it was just the aftereffects of his conversation the previous evening with the strange inmate who occupied the last cage down the line in the cellblock. He knew this logically.

Emotionally... well, that was another thing.

He suppressed the urge to look behind him. He couldn't escape the notion that the prisoner's eyes were on him, even here in the small room that served as an office for the facility's prison guards. _Those queer, lifeless eyes... enough to give a man the shakes_, he thought, remembering their basilisk stare. A chill crept up his spine. _No wonder I've got the heebie-jeebies._

He leaned back in his chair while holding up an envelope close to his eyes. Squinting, he tried to figure out what might be inside. Giving up, he lowered the envelope and absent-mindedly fingered it. Briefly, his mind reviewed the curious conversation he had with the prisoner the night before.

_"I've been waiting for you, Mr. Tolliver," said Josiah Barton._

_"Waiting for me, is it, dearie? And what would you be waiting on me for?" asked Fat Jack._

_"We have business to transact, sir."_

_"Do we now? What sort of business could there ever be between the likes of you and me?"_

_Barton's pale and icy eyes held Tolliver in thrall, refusing to let the man look away. In spite of himself, Tolliver shivered. There was something evil in the man._

_An ancient evil. It brought to mind pre-civilization temples and strange artifacts cast centuries ago of forsaken deities - vile and malevolent gods who brought terror to the heart of primitive man. _

_A warning bell began to clang in Fat Jack's Irish Catholic brain. His Catholicism was a patchwork quilt of parochial school teachings and convenient compromise that gave him license to do as he pleased. And do as he pleased he did, and Church be damned! He feared neither man nor institution, and he always believed God was a member of his battalion in his handling of the animals in his prison; but this... this gave him pause. This was different._

_Why it was so, he couldn't say. He felt an almost irresistible urge to make the sign of the cross in the hopes of divine protection. Instead, he stood very still, mesmerized by those compelling eyes. _

_"I want you to provide a service," commanded Barton._

_The man's hand reached sinuously beneath the cushion of his cot, easing itself one way and then another, in its quest for what was hidden. Again the comparison to a cobra came to Tolliver's mind as he watched with fascination the hand as it undulated beneath the cushion in search of the object. Finally, Barton found what he was searching for and pulled it out, holding it in his hands._

_Suddenly, in one quick, fluid moment, the prisoner rose from the cot. Like the deadly reptile preparing to strike, he approached the guard with an abrupt swiftness. Startled, Tolliver involuntarily took a step backward, feeling vulnerable in spite of the bars that separated the two men. _

_"I want you to take this, and deliver it to the address on the front of the envelope. The recipient is expecting it. I need you to take care of it in the morning. Not the afternoon and not a week from now. Tomorrow... in the morning. Am I clear?"_

_"And I'm not your servant boy - am I clear, dearie?" Tolliver's protest sounded weak, even to his own ears._

_Barton said nothing. His terrible, unfathomable eyes pinned Fat Jack, and the guard found his strength and will slowly draining away. _

_"What makes you think I'd do anything for you?" he asked uneasily._

_Barton smiled. "Because if you don't, you'll die."_

_Something in the smile and the tone in Barton's voice convinced Fat Jack that this was no idle threat. It was a simple statement. A fact._

_And its chilling utterance was terrifying to a man long used to terrifying others._

The recollection of the conversation was upsetting to Tolliver. What was it about Josiah Barton that made him believe the man when he issued that threat in such a cold, silky manner?

Abruptly, he sat up in his chair and shoved the envelope inside his desk. Frowning, he began moving about the papers inside the drawer until his hand finally grasped what he was seeking. He pulled out a worn deck of cards. His 'worry' cards.

Whenever Fat Jack had a difficult problem to puzzle out, he would pull out the deck of cards, shuffle them a few times, and then begin the slow, methodical process of carefully balancing player cards against each other. Slowly, layer by layer, an uneasy structure would rise, held together only by precision and counter-balance. With each new level, his thoughts would grow more focused, more centered upon the task before him. Whatever worried him would recede into the background. The break in anxiety allowed him to regroup, and later face a worrisome situation more relaxed and from an entirely new angle.

His well-kept hands now parted the frayed cards with practiced efficiency and began to shuffle them with a skill worthy of a riverboat gambler. With surprising dexterity, plump fingers quickly and gracefully began to erect the first level of his house of cards.

Several minutes later, his young colleague, Billy Williams, timorously entered the office he shared with Fat Jack. He noted the drawn brows and look of concentration on the older guard's face and his spirits sank. He wasn't sure which was worse: an effusive Fat Jack or a somber one.

What he was sure of was that it was never a good sign when Fat Jack had the worry cards on the table. It meant he was in a bad mood and likely to be as mean as any one of those old 'gators sunning themselves alongside the highway that led to the prison. Resolving to be as quiet as possible and not attract the ire of the volatile man, Billy slipped quietly into the chair behind the desk facing Tolliver's.

Billy did not much care for his co-worker. In fact, Billy did not much care for his job at the Miami-Dade Correctional Facility. It was only his lackluster performance in high school and his uncle's beneficence that had forced him into this line of work. He had no marketable skills. His father's brother was the warden of the facility and had been prevailed upon by dear old dad to get his boy a position. Billy would have rather spent his time listening to music in his room, reading science fiction novels and sponging off his parents. He didn't like having to grow up and deal with a nine-to-five job. Particularly this job, one for which he was so ill suited.

He dreamed of rocket ships and far-off galaxies; instead he was stuck in this cesspool of human flotsam.

He often wished he were back in high school. He hated his life. Moreover, he hated Fat Jack Tolliver - although he was afraid to show it.

Without looking up from the rising structure he was building, Fat Jack's voice floated across the desk, mean and snarky. "Mornin', laddie. So... got any starch in your panties today, dearie?"

"Morning, Mr. Tolliver," replied the boy, a slight tremor in his voice.

"That was a pretty bad show you put on last night in front of the girls, dearie. Runnin' off like an addled pup, your tail tucked between your legs... d'ya not understand how it is? You never - _never!_ - let 'em see you scared. Soon as you do, you're through. They sniff out your weakness and use it against you."

Fat Jack laughed without humor. "Didn't your fine uncle not share with you the rules of the game? Or perhaps t'is too many years he's spent in an upstairs office... livin' in an ivory palace instead of in the trenches like you and me."

Billy swallowed painfully, the large Adam's apple in his scrawny throat visibly bobbing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Tolliver. The men in here... they freak me out. Doesn't it bother you, knowing they'd cut your throat in a heartbeat if given half a chance?"

Tolliver continued carefully stacking one card against another as he began building the third level of his house. "Bother me? Nah, doesn't bother me at all. T'would be a fortunate man who got the jump on Fat Jack Tolliver, and that's a fact. It's me who'd be doing the cutting first, laddie, and that's something you can bank on."

Billy did not reply. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Images of alligators in dangerous repose again crossed his mind as he watched his colleague deftly handle the cards. One wrong word and the prisoners would be Billy's least concern. He sometimes wondered if he should inform his uncle of the sort of man he had him working with, but pragmatism forced him to admit that his uncle probably wouldn't care.

Fat Jack Tolliver was good at keeping order, and that is what his uncle cared about.

"Got a task for you, dearie. I'm going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself after your disgraceful performance last night."

"What do you need, Mr. Tolliver?" Billy could feel his heart begin to beat just a little faster. _Is he sending me in there alone? I can't do it! I can't go in there alone_, he thought, thinking of the long corridor of menacing, violent men.

Finally Fat Jack raised his eyes from the delicately wrought structure and evaluated the young man before him. Irritation mingled with contempt as the guard watched beads of sweat begin to form on the boy's forehead. _He's scared... all I'd have to say is BOO! and t'is certain I am that he'd be shitting his pants_, thought Tolliver.

"I'm needing you to make a delivery for me." Tolliver opened his desk drawer and pulled the envelope out. "Here, take this."

Billy reached for the envelope and looked at the writing on the front. _Paul Lockhart._ "Who is Paul Lockhart?" he asked.

Fat Jack frowned. "You don't need to know that. You just need to deliver that envelope to Mr. Lockhart at the address listed. _Now_."

A petulant look crossed Billy's face. "But I just got here, Mr. Tolliver."

"Aye, and now you're just leaving."

"Look, Mr. Tolliver, couldn't someone else deliver the..." Billy started to object when Fat Jack formed a tight fist. With unexpected swiftness, the man smashed it into the house of cards, causing the structure to quickly collapse as the cards flew helter-skelter across the desk.

"Damn you, are you setting yourself at cross purposes from me, boy?" he roared, causing the shaken Billy to raise his palm upward as if warding off an imaginary blow.

"No sir, no sir!" Billy quickly assured him. "Of course I'll deliver the envelope. I'll go now... right now."

"Damn right, you will! I don't ask a thing twice, and t'would be wise for you to remember that, dearie! Now, here's the thing: you deliver the envelope and then you leave. You don't make chitchat. You don't ask questions. You don't hang about. You think you can do that, lad, or would it be too much for you?"

Fat Jack glared at the young man who was clasping and unclasping his hands. "I can handle it, Mr. Tolliver," he whispered.

"CAN'T HEAR YOU, DEARIE! SPEAK UP!" yelled Tolliver.

"I... I can take care of it, sir. I'll take care of it right away," Billy promised, his voice shaky but stronger.

"And what would you be sayin' to your uncle about all this?"

"Nothing! I would say nothing, sir!"

Tolliver folded his arms across his chest and looked Billy Williams straight in the eye. "Yes... that's more like it. I can see we've reached an understanding. Now, go on, get moving. I want this letter delivered before noon or t'will not be a pleasant atmosphere in this office, if you get my meaning, dearie."

Billy Williams did indeed get Fat Jack's meaning. He nodded quickly and hurried from the office, intent on delivering the envelope. _And_ delivering it well before noon.

Forty-five minutes later, Billy parked his vehicle on a dusty street that had seen better days.

It was a depressing part of town, drab and dreary. Even the bright Miami sunshine did little to alleviate the gloom. A few ramshackle buildings shared space with a large number of vacant lots. Trash was strewn about the empty spaces, and empty, sometimes broken, liquor bottles rested haphazardly along street curbs. The area reminded Billy of an Old West ghost town. Uneasily, he sat in his car, listening to the far-off sound of an unhappy dog's incessant barking. It was the only sound audible in the strange stillness.

Billy found it difficult to believe that this was the address Tolliver had sent him to, and he looked again at the envelope and saw that it was so.

Sighing, he finally got out of the car. He was about to cross the street, but hesitated, taking a moment to observe the house sitting on the large lot across from where he was standing.

It was a sizable structure, and at one time the house must have been a beauty. Like the neighborhood, its best days were behind it and it was now run-down and seedy-looking. A broken and rusty chain-link fence surrounded the house, sealing it off from the abandoned lots on either side. The ugly fence must have been added as an afterthought when someone still cared about protecting the house against vagrants. It wasn't a fit with the house's former distinction. The fence's state of disrepair hinted that the owner had given up any pretense at security.

The thought occurred to Billy that perhaps security measures were no longer needed. The place gave off bad vibes, and the skin at the back of Billy's neck crawled. A bum would be pretty bad off not to prefer the openness of the street to the spookiness of that big old house.

Billy's eyes narrowed as he stared at the sagging front porch, evaluating whether its ancient, warped boards would hold his insignificant weight. In the same way the sun is unkind to an older woman, illuminating every line and crevice on her face, it refused to spare the old house any dignity. It harshly brought into focus the peeling paint, the rotting shutters, and the boards nailed over two of its once grand windows.

The walkway leading to the house's entrance had buckled with age, and weeds grew between the cracks in the concrete. Old, overgrown trees and bushes closely embraced the exterior as if trying to guard the residence from prying eyes.

Yes, it was a spooky old place and it gave Billy a creepy feeling - as if it had personality and a will of its own.

The old porch creaked when Billy stepped on to it, the harsh sound startling him. Taking a deep breath, he knocked firmly on the door. He was almost convinced no one would answer, finding it hard to believe that anyone could really be inside the old place.

Surprisingly, the door began to open almost immediately. "Yes?"

His voice tremulous in spite of his best efforts, Billy replied, "Mr. Paul Lockhart?"

"Who wishes to know?" inquired the breathy voice.

"Sir, I have something for you. I've been asked to deliver an envelope to you."

A beat of time went by, and then the door opened just wide enough for Billy to enter. "Come in, then."

Billy entered the house and found himself standing in a dark foyer. His eyes, used to the glare of Miami's morning sun, had trouble making anything out in the darkness, and he stood there confused and temporarily blinded. The temperature inside was several degrees cooler and Billy felt uncomfortably moist as his perspiration mingled with the dank atmosphere in the small room.

"Let me see the envelope, please."

The young man pulled the envelope out of his pants' pocket and handed it over. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness, he stared at the man before him.

Lockhart was of middle age, perhaps fifty, if Billy had to hazard a guess - it was hard to determine in the gloom of the vestibule. A scarf was wrapped tightly about his throat, cravat style. Billy wondered briefly if something under the scarf accounted for the oddness of the man's voice. His speech seemed laborious; short phrases were interspersed with peculiar burps of air. The hands that held the envelope were elegant with long, pale slender fingers. The thought occurred to Billy that the man's fingers were almost spider-like, and disquiet swept through him at the thought.

As if reading his mind, the man glanced up at Billy and smiled. It was an unusual smile, both sinister and engaging, and it made the boy suddenly very afraid.

"I've been waiting for this." A small air burp erupted from Lockhart, and then, "Thank you." One of his slender hands reached out to grasp Billy's shoulder in a gesture of thanks, and Billy shrank from the contact. Soft laughter vied with a gasp of air. "Something wrong?"

"No... I have to leave though. Get back to work..."

"Really? I was going to ask you to tea, young sir," said the man, his oxygenated tone amused. "Well, then, run along. You've done your good deed for the day."

Billy backed out of the doorway, only too happy to comply. He heard mild, breathy laughter as he closed the door behind him.

Relieved he was out on the street again, Billy inhaled deeply. He was grateful for the hot Miami sun that bathed his face, the sound of the mutt barking several streets away, and even for the trashed lots on either side of Lockhart's residence. It now seemed very welcoming.

Being in the strange presence of Paul Lockhart had been a very brief, nightmarish experience. The man was disturbing, no two ways about it.

Billy climbed into his car and began whistling a tune of some sort, happy to be driving away from the nasty old house.

He briefly considered his colleague and suddenly grinned. _Spending the day with Fat Jack doesn't seem so terrible after this_, he thought. Fat Jack was a mean bully, and he covered his menace with a lilting voice and a false, mercurial charm. But he wasn't crazy.

Billy wasn't sure that could be said of the man inside the creepy old house.

Paul Lockhart walked down the dim hallway to a small room. Like the rest of the house, it was shrouded in darkness. He clicked on the small table lamp that sat on the scarred, mahogany desk.

He closed his eyes briefly, a feeling of almost terrible joy taking hold of him. He had been waiting for this. A message from His Master.

Opening his eyes, he leaned forward and held the envelope beneath the weak yellow glow of the lamp. His spidery fingers quickly unsealed it. He pulled out the single page.

**MY FRIEND - THE TIME IS NOW. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO.**

A thrill of anticipation coursed rapidly through Lockhart's body. _The time is now._

He did indeed know what to do.

_Twelve noon, the neighborhood surrounding Saint Ignatius Church..._

"Alright, Eric, Calleigh, this is what I want you to do... Use the church as ground zero." Horatio adjusted the sunglasses he wore and looked up into the bright afternoon sunlight.

_Not a cloud in the sky_, he thought briefly, his eyes dazzled by the azure blueness above him. _A beautiful day._

He and his people were standing down the street from Saint Ignatius, close to the dreary ally where Theresa Lopez' body had been found. The tall spires of the church were clearly visible; Saint Ignatius was still the visual center of the once-nice neighborhood.

He saw that Calleigh and Eric were looking at him expectantly, awaiting his instructions.

Something was off with Calleigh today; he could see it in her forced smile. Glancing at Eric, he noted a stiffness in his posture. _Now what?_ he wondered irritably.

Officially, he wasn't supposed to know they were a couple, and he didn't address their private business with them. He only hoped it remained private. They were good CSIs - his best. Moreover, they were his friends, and he didn't want to delve into their personal affairs.

Horatio wasn't a fan of 'office romances'. They seldom boded well for the couple involved or the people around them. After a brief honeymoon period, the problems inherent in any relationship began to insert themselves into the office environment, and inevitably it would begin to affect work and morale.

Horatio didn't want anything to interrupt the smooth operation of his lab. A time or two, he'd thought of speaking to Eric about the relationship and cautioning him about keeping it out of the office, but he squelched the impulse almost immediately. His people were professionals; he trusted them to act accordingly.

A reticent man, especially concerning the affairs of others, he had thus far continued to remain silent. As long as the two kept the relationship out of the lab, he was content to ignore it. If that were to change, however...

_If that changes_, he thought grimly, _I'll be forced to have a conversation with both that I really don't want to have_.

"H?" asked Eric, noting his boss's delay in issuing instructions.

Horatio looked at him and continued. "Use the church as ground zero. Ms. Lopez was last seen standing outside the entrance. From there, she went down one of the side streets, followed by the suspect - we _think_. I want you two to split up. Knock on doors, talk to people in the streets, look around. Try to find out if anyone saw or heard anything the other night. We know the girl was abducted - taken to another location and killed. The body was then brought back here. There's a reason the killer returned the body here; I want to know what that reason is. Maybe someone saw him leaving with Lopez... or returning the body. Maybe they're afraid to talk. Make 'em talk, people."

Eric nodded. "We're on it."

"You've got it," said Calleigh. "It won't be easy, Horatio, will it?"

"No," he agreed. "You said yesterday that people get a case of amnesia when cops come around, asking questions. Use your charm, Calleigh - try to engage them. Okay?"

An awkward smile suddenly appeared on her face. She glanced at Eric, who looked away. Quickly turning her attention back to Horatio, she replied, "I'll do my best, Horatio."

"I know you will. Okay, get to it, please."

Calleigh and Eric walked away, and Horatio's glance settled once again on Saint Ignatius. He wondered if there was a connection between the church and the girl's murder.

He was soon to find out.

His phone began to buzz and he pulled it from his pocket. "Horatio Caine," he answered.

His eyes instantly grew alert as he listened to the frantic voice. Even as he spoke, he began walking toward the church, his pace quickening with each step.

"Okay... it's okay... calm down... just leave everything as it is. I'll be there in a minute - I'm on my way."

**To be continued.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Chapter 5**

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter 5 - Valentine's Day

"I'm on my way, Sister... Try to remain calm. I need you to settle down and stay with Ms. Kent - I'm only a minute away from the church."

Horatio spoke urgently into the phone, quickening his pace as he headed in the direction of Saint Ignatius. The alarm in Sister Mary-Martha's voice disturbed him. She sounded distraught. "I'm almost there - don't touch anything, okay?"

He terminated the call at the front of the church and began running up the steep cement stairs that led to a pair of tall, imposing wooden doors.

As if by magic, Frank Tripp appeared at his side. "Horatio, what's going on?"

Horatio glanced at his colleague, pausing for a moment in front of the heavily scarred entryway. "As ever, Frank, your timing is impeccable. Catherine Kent, the woman who runs the soup kitchen in this church, received a package today. Whatever was inside has upset her. Why don't you come along... let's see what has Ms. Kent so alarmed."

Horatio was about to open the church doors when one of them partially swung open before him. Immediately, he recognized the man at the door. It was the middle-aged Black man who had complained the previous evening about having to listen to Catherine's remarks before he and the others could eat. Watching him hobble forward to greet them, Horatio suddenly recalled his name. _Charlie_.

"You Lieutenant Caine?" he asked, looking Horatio up and down, a scowl on his face.

"I am," said Horatio, and then gestured toward Frank. "This is Detective Tripp."

Charlie coolly appraised the two men, and then opened the church door wide, motioning for them to come in. "Sister Mary-Martha said you were coming... said I should be on the look-out for a policeman with red hair. Said when I saw you, I was to let you in immediately. You gentlemen want to follow me?"

Horatio could see the man had a problem with his left leg; he was leaning heavily on a cane as he and the two police officers made their way to a set of stairs in the back of the church. Charlie moved painfully and slowly, and Horatio, already edgy, frowned with impatience.

"Guess Sister Mary-Martha told you Sister Cat is upset, Lieutenant... I ain't ever seen her this way," said Charlie, descending the steps one at a time, each step taken deliberately and with effort. "She got a package today... it scared her."

"You see what was in that package?" asked Frank.

"No, sir, I did not. I just heard screaming, and then I came running."

That statement caused Horatio and Frank to look meaningfully at each other: if there was anything to be sure of, it was that Charlie was incapable of running.

"Charlie... Charlie, what are you doing here?" asked the lieutenant as Charlie paused for breath on the bottom step.

"Working."

"Working? Doing what?"

"Last night, Sister Cat offered me a temporary job. Janitorial work. God knows, I needed a job."

Horatio nodded. As Charlie turned away and resumed his faltering walk, Frank whispered in Horatio's ear, "Can't see him being much help around here - that leg is pretty bad."

"Yeah," continued Charlie, unaware of Frank's comment, "I was sweeping up the kitchen when I just about dropped my broom. Heard these piercing screams. Scared the shit out of me, don't mind saying." He turned his head suddenly, looking Horatio in the eye. "Pardon - I sometimes forget we're in the house of God. I meant to say, I was pretty damned scared - uh, I mean frightened."

Horatio heard Frank chuckle softly, amused by Charlie's inability to refrain from profanity.

A few steps later, Charlie paused again, breathing heavily. Not only was he lame in one leg, but overweight. In spite of his urgency, he was unable to move very fast.

Horatio bit back his impatience. "Charlie, I'm going to ask you to stay here. Could you take a few minutes and answer some questions from Detective Tripp while I see Sister Mary-Martha and Ms. Kent? It would help us out." He looked past the fifty plus year old man, and his eyes met those of Frank. "Frank - can you take this, please?"

Understanding Horatio's urgency, Frank nodded. He then turned his attention to Charlie, and pulled a small notebook from a breast pocket inside his jacket. "Sir, let's start with your full name, okay?"

Hurrying down the hall, Horatio came to Catherine's office. The door was closed, and he rapped sharply for admittance. Sister Mary-Martha opened the door and waved him in. "Lieutenant Caine... please come in."

The woman's forehead was creased with concern. Without speaking, she nodded in the direction of Catherine, who sat in the corner of the room, her hands absently caressing a bundle of fluff in her lap. Looking closely, Horatio could see it was one of the kittens from the basket near her desk. The mother cat observed Catherine closely, content for the moment to allow her baby to give comfort, but watchful should something go wrong.

Catherine's head was lowered, and Horatio couldn't see her face - just the shiny cap of thick, silky brown hair that brushed the sides of her temples and curled gently against her upper neck. He noticed the protective rounding of her shoulders, as if she were guarding herself and the kitten against harm.

"Catherine?" He walked toward her and gazed at the quiet woman, unsure what to say to make her look up. "Catherine... please look at me."

She slowly shook her head. Horatio had to strain to catch her soft response. "I need a minute, Lieutenant... okay?"

He hesitated and then met the eyes of Sister Mary-Martha who was watching from the doorway. He walked over to the nun and pointed toward the door, indicating that she should step outside with him. He then closed the door softly behind them, leaving Catherine alone to regain her composure.

"Sister," he said, "can you tell me what's happened here? When you called, you said something about a package. Did you see anything?"

"I didn't see much, Lieutenant," said the unhappy woman. Her usual placid expression was marred with distress. "I was down the hall, in the back of the kitchen, seeing to the food deliveries. I had just about finished up when I heard Catherine screaming. I ran to her office - I don't mind telling you I was terrified! After what happened to that girl in the neighborhood, Catherine's screaming frightened me... it was so chilling."

"What did you find when you got to her office?"

A troubled look crossed her face. "She was staring into space, her hand on her heart, and breathing erratically. She looked terror-stricken, Lieutenant. That's not like Catherine! She's always so self-possessed and confident. I tried talking to her, tried to calm her, but it was as though I wasn't there - she didn't seem to recognize me at first."

"Did you see what it was that caused her such distress? Did you see the package?"

"No, sir... I didn't see anything. I asked her what was wrong, and she mumbled something about receiving a package, but then just shook her head. Her hands were shaking and she kept saying one word over and over."

Horatio cocked his head, his eyes sharp. "One word?"

The nun nodded. "A name, really: 'Joe'. She repeated it several times. And then she picked up one of those cats and sat down in the chair and said nothing more. It was rather spooky, if you want to know the truth."

_Joe?_ Horatio let that roll around in his brain for a few moments. Changing tactics, he asked, "You mentioned food deliveries... can you tell me a little more about that?"

"Yes," she replied. "We get deliveries every couple of days from some of the local food markets. Excess produce, extra goods they don't need. Catherine has been pretty effective in getting commitments from the business community to stock the kitchen. It is through their largesse that we're able to operate. They provide donations of the staples and perishables that we need to stay open, and they write off the expense as charitable giving."

"I see. So, you were meeting with the delivery people?"

"I was."

"Are the delivery people generally the same? Do you know them?"

"Most of them..."

"Did you notice anyone unfamiliar to you? Anyone who stood out?"

She thought for a moment. "No... but to be honest, Lieutenant, I wasn't paying close attention. I was busy with things and more or less waved them in and out."

"Are you aware of anyone who might have delivered a package to Ms. Kent today?"

"No, sir, not specifically. I was only aware of food deliveries."

"Hm," he mused. "Okay. Tell you what: I'd like to get a list of the organizations that deliver to the church, Sister. Can you do that for me, please?"

She nodded. "Lieutenant, I've known Catherine for five years... I've never seen her like this. Could this have been my fault? Did I let someone inside the church who shouldn't have been here?"

Horatio smiled reassuringly at the kindly woman and let the question go; he could see she was on the verge of tears. "Ma'am, you know what would be helpful? Do you think you could round up a cup of tea for Ms. Kent? It might help - might calm her down. Think you can do that?"

The Sister looked deeply into his eyes. _Was she imagining the hint of compassion she saw there_? She didn't think so.

She suspected the lieutenant could be quite adept at wiping clear all emotion from those too-expressive eyes; at this moment, however, he willingly allowed her to read him. Her distress eased and a sudden, sweet smile caused the corners of her lips to curl upward.

"So, Lieutenant Caine... are you giving me something to do... a task to calm _me_ down and keep me from worrying overmuch?"

"Not at all, ma'am. I just think a cup of tea might settle Catherine, allow her to tell her story in a calmer frame of mind. What do you think?"

The Sister leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "I'll tell you what I think, sir - I think you're really just a good Catholic boy at heart. Isn't that so, Lieutenant?"

An odd look passed over Horatio's face. "Well, let's just say I'm Catholic. Now, if you'd be kind enough to get that tea, I'd be grateful."

Quietly, Horatio opened the door and saw that Catherine had finally relinquished the kitten, whose mother had claimed him once again.

The young woman was now leaning forward, her head resting against her knees. Approaching her, Horatio lightly placed a hand on her upper back and with a quiet voice tried to gain her attention.

"Catherine..."

Unprepared, he had to take a surprised step backward when she suddenly reared up at his touch and whipped her face in his direction.

"Don't touch me... please don't touch me!"

"Hey, easy... easy," he soothed. "It's okay... it's just you and me..." He knelt down on one knee, trying to make eye contact with her. Her pretty face was flushed with distress and her eyes were turbulent and anxious. "It's okay," he repeated.

He noticed her eyes darted about the room in agitation, looking for something she seemed fearful of finding. Satisfied finally that whatever she'd been afraid of wasn't there, she went limp, and her eyes settled on him. He frowned at the fear he saw in them.

_What had happened to the lively young woman he'd spoken with the evening before? This silent, quaking creature couldn't be the same woman who had humorously assured him that she 'had the moves' to take care of any would-be assailants._

A lock of her dark brown hair had fallen haphazardly over one eye, and Horatio experienced a sudden and keen yearning to touch it, to gently brush its softness aside.

Quashing the impulse, he asked, "Catherine, what's happened?"

"Horatio," she began, her voice choked. "He... he's found me."

"Who, sweetheart? Who has found you?"

Abruptly, she turned her head away from him. He watched her throat convulse and the shudder that coursed through her. It soon became obvious she would say nothing further. Frowning, he got to his feet and looked about the office.

"Catherine, the package - where is it?" he asked.

"The computer..." she began and stopped.

Horatio stepped past the cat and kittens curled up in the basket near her desk. His eyes immediately spied an open DVD case laying atop brown wrapping paper. The paper was standard packaging wrap, and its string cord was cut in half on either side.

He reached into his pocket for the pair of latex gloves always hidden there, and pulled them on while he looked at the DVD with curiosity. "Catherine, this DVD - is this what has you so upset?"

She looked at him. "Yes... I played it. It was horrible, Horatio!" Again, she shuddered.

He examined the case. Nothing special: it was a generic plastic case. Inserted into its plastic framing was a makeshift cover - a white piece of paper displaying a large hand-drawn heart. Crude in its representation, the heart appeared to have been colored by a child with a red crayon. Written cross the 'heart' in thick, black marker were two words: GREATEST HITS.

Horatio opened up the case; the DVD was missing. He looked at the computer. Pressing the ejection button next to the DVD slot, he watched as a DVD slid halfway out. He picked it up carefully - again, no surprises. It was standard issue, and could have been purchased anywhere. He gently inserted the disk back inside the slot and was about to play it when Catherine's strangled voice stopped him.

"Must you? I don't think I can bear to hear it again."

He thought about this for a minute. She was still visibly upset... Should he ask her to leave the room? He needed to find out what was on the DVD that so upset her. He needed her able and willing to talk with him about it. More importantly, he wanted to understand what had shaken her and changed her from the self-assured woman he'd first met.

She looked at him imploringly and repeated, "Must you?"

"Come here, Catherine," he said finally, and held out his hand. "Don't be afraid. I'm here and you're safe. Please," he urged, 'it's just a few steps, okay?"

Slowly she rose from the chair. Keeping her eyes on his, she walked toward him. When she was close, he reached for her hand and held it in both of his. "You're a brave woman, Catherine. I could tell that from our conversation last night. But something has frightened you badly... whatever it is, it's on that DVD, isn't it?"

She nodded, biting her lip, and looked at him with wide, troubled eyes. Again, Horatio found himself fascinated by the errant lock of hair that fell over one deep blue eye. Something about that soft wave falling into the thick black lashes touched him. It made her seem lonely and vulnerable - two conditions that never failed to move him.

_It's more than that, pal,_ he suddenly thought. _There's something else going on here, whether you want to admit it or not. _Remembering the attraction to her he experienced the night before, a warning bell began to sound in his brain.

_The hell with it!_ he thought, and abruptly gave in to his earlier impulse. He raised a hand and gently lifted the silky wave away from her eye, smoothing it back and then allowing his hand to rest lightly upon her cheek.

"Can you trust me?" he asked. "Please?" He looked at her intently, allowing the thumb of his hand to lightly brush the side of her face.

As if mesmerized, she again nodded.

He smiled. "Thank you." He let his fingers fall away from her face and turned back toward the computer, ready to start the DVD.

Before he could right-click the mouse and play the disk, he felt her hand suddenly rest atop his, restraining him.

Again she asked, "Are you sure? Must we?"

"I'm afraid we must, sweetheart." He looked at her and smiled reassuringly. "Okay, here we go."

"Cal, wait up," called Eric.

Calleigh turned toward him and smiled brightly. "Hey, you... any luck?"

"Not much," he said, falling in step with her. "How about you?"

"Well... as a matter of fact, I did find out the name of Theresa Lopez's best friend - she lives down the street. Up for a little visit?"

"Sure..." They walked in silence for a few seconds, awkward in one another's company.

"Cal, about this morning..." Eric began, and suddenly stopped and reached for her hand. "I'm sorry."

The smile faded from her face as her eyes searched his. _Was he? _He was such a man-child at times. The two of them had been a couple for several months now. Physically, things were great between them. It was the moments outside the bedroom that were problematic.

Calleigh was in her mid-thirties now; she was tired of broken men and broken promises. She wanted someone with whom she could have a solid relationship, perhaps marry someday - someone she could start a family with. When she looked at Eric, her heart melted. She wanted a future with him. She knew he wasn't the cavalier rake that his colleagues thought him. He was a good man. Tender. And serious. Especially in their quiet moments together.

But there was also a side of Eric that was still immature and needy. And vain. It was that side of him that prompted this morning's argument.

The night before, she and Eric had gone for drinks and food with Horatio and Frank. It had been a good way to spend an hour or two, winding down... and she had enjoyed a few Mojitos and was feeling bubbly and happy. Then her eyes drifted toward Eric who was returning to the table after a visit to the restroom.

As he made his way back to the table, a pretty girl, apparently out for a night on the town with her girlfriends, boldly called out to the handsome Cuban. Eric turned in her direction and offered her a smile - the smile that Calleigh always characterized as his 'killer smile' - a smooth grin that slowly exposed his white teeth and full red lips.

_God, how she loved his mouth_! The thought made her grow warm and distracted her from her musings for a moment.

"Calleigh?" prompted Eric, interrupting her thoughts.

She frowned at him, refusing to answer.

Again her thoughts returned to the small restaurant they'd been in. It wasn't so much that he had given the girls _her_ smile; no, it was that he'd felt it necessary to pause at their table and exchange a few flirtatious words. Finally, he turned away from them, saw Calleigh watching him, and shrugged, a shit-grin plastered across his face. She'd been furious, but with Frank and Horatio at the table, decided to put the matter aside until she and Eric got back to his place.

But once back at Eric's apartment, too many Mojitos and that damned seductive mouth made short work of her resolutions. His heated murmurings and warm hands weakened her and in the ensuing passion, her anger dissolved.

Dissolved? No... not quite. It had simply crept away, temporarily shielding itself somewhere deep inside her, waiting for the right moment to spring.

And spring it did - over breakfast. Harsh words had been exchanged, followed by coolness and an unwillingness to look at one another. But that had been hours ago... and Calleigh was tired of being mad. It wasn't in her nature to stay angry. Fortunately, it wasn't in his either.

"Look, Cal... I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the stupid girl and her silly friends. It was just a... just a moment, you know? Nothing important. Christ, I can't even recall her face."

"I know," she said softly. "But why do you do it? Do you know how embarrassing it is to me when you flirt with these women?"

"It was just a moment, Calleigh... you know how I feel about you..."

He was worried; she could see that. Yes, she did know how he felt about her. He was crazy about her. He proved it often enough with his lips, his hands, those hips that thrust against hers with a rhythm so sure that she felt they'd been destined for each other. _But was that enough?_

She pushed the troubled thought aside. Taking a quick look around to make sure they weren't being observed, she stood up on her toes and leaned in toward him, giving him a fleeting kiss. "I know... I know, and I'm sorry about the argument... but Eric, this sort of...of behavior hurts me. It feels demeaning."

He nodded, his expression serious. "I'll do better. Okay? Are we okay?"

"We're okay," she whispered, giving him one last kiss and then pulling away. "We're okay." She only hoped that were true.

They resumed walking. A few minutes later, Calleigh stopped him.

"Wait," she said, business-like again, "here we are: 2324 Lister Road. This is where Vicki Savaliski lives. Let's see what Ms. Savaliski has to say."

"Nothing much, I'll bet," replied Eric as they approached the seedy-looking row house. He knocked smartly on the door several times, and then they waited. The windows were open and they could hear the sounds of a TV soap opera escaping from the inside.

Not receiving a response to his first attempt, Eric knocked again, this time calling into a window. "Vicki Savaliski? Please open up. Miami-Dade Police. We'd like to speak with you, please."

From behind the cheap lace curtains, a surly young voice answered back. "What do you want? I ain't done nothing wrong!"

"Ms. Savaliski, we just want to talk," said Calleigh. "I'm Calleigh Duquesne, and this is my partner, Eric Delko. We want to speak to you about your friend... about Theresa Lopez."

A beat or two of time went by while Eric and Calleigh just looked at each other.

Finally the voice continued. "I don't know anything about what happened to Theresa... she was my friend and now she's gone. Just go away."

Lowering her voice, Calleigh said gently, "I know how hard this must be for you... it hurts to lose a friend, doesn't it?"

The voice hesitated. A muffled sob escaped. "She was my friend since fifth grade. My best friend... my only friend."

"I know," said Calleigh. "I know... please, ma'am, won't you let us in? We won't take up much of your time. We're trying to figure out who might have had a motive for hurting Theresa."

A few seconds passed. Eric was sure Savaliski had gone back to her television viewing. Finally, however, the door opened and the young woman emerged, a toddler perched upon her hip. The burdened hip jutted forward with the weight of the little boy.

The girl was in her early twenties, with lank blond hair gathered up in an untidy bun, and a terrier-like expression in her eyes: inquisitive, alert, and ready to jump at the least provocation. The child she held, a two-year old, was still wearing the remnants of his lunch about his mouth, chin and cheeks, and was clothed in a soiled undershirt. Angrily, he grabbed at a fistful of hair that had escaped his mother's bun and yanked it. Hard.

"Ow! Stop it, you little brute!" she cried out, giving him a quick shake. "Whaddaya think you're doing?"

Her eyes took in the cool and collected blonde who was standing in front of her, and quickly dismissed her. She then looked at Eric, and her eyes lingered with sudden interest.

"I told you I don't know anything about what happened to Theresa, but y'all can come in for a few minutes - for all the good it will do you."

Smiling wryly at the inhospitable welcome, Eric followed both the young woman and Calleigh into the warm house. The inside was as rundown as the outside, and she pointed them toward a sagging sofa covered with a loud, floral cover. Gingerly, both CSIs sat down. Vicki placed the 'little brute' on the floor and handed him a bag of Goldfish crackers to nibble on. Her motherly obligations now ostensibly fulfilled, she looked at the two CSIs.

"Okay, whaddaya wanna know?" she asked, reaching for the pack of cigarettes sitting on the coffee table. She picked up a packet of matches residing next to an ashtray already burdened with too much of the gray powdery residue.

In spite of herself, Calleigh winced. _Nice_, she thought. _What a slob... does she ever clean out that ashtray?_ She frowned as she looked over at the child shoving cheesy fish-shaped crackers into his mouth with abandon. _This can't be good. Poor kid... does she ever wipe his little mouth? No wonder he's angry! _

Her partner, meanwhile, was focused on the boy's mother. "Did you see Theresa the night she was killed?" asked Eric.

"Yeah, she stopped by the house earlier in the day. She's Brandon's god mama," said Vicki, pointing her cigarette in the little boy's direction.

_Brandon?_ thought Eric, looking uncertainly at the kid as he continued to stuff crackers into his mouth. The soap opera name seemed incongruous when paired up with the gobbling little rug rat staring up at him from the living-room floor. A gooey mixture of cheesy dough and saliva was settling in the corners of the kid's mouth. Eric was glad he hadn't yet had lunch and he uneasily glanced away.

"We were supposed to go out to a movie that night. An Antonio Banderas movie. I just love him. He's so handsome... smooth." She cocked her head and smiled suddenly, her terrier eyes fastening on Eric. "You know... you sorta remind me of him. I'm partial to Latin men."

Eric grinned while Calleigh rolled her eyes. "Ms. Savaliski," she said, "why didn't you go to the movie?"

Taking a drag from her cigarette, Vicki frowned. "My mother... she was supposed to watch Brandon. Guess going out with her boyfriend was more important than watching her own grandson! Can you believe it? Damned woman never was any good. Sure never did anything for me."

"So you stayed home?" asked Eric.

She patted the stray locks of hair that had escaped her bun, trying to smooth them back into place and smiled at Eric. "Yes, I did. I couldn't leave my boy home alone, now, could I? What kinda mother would I be if I did that? I'm a good mother. Not like my mama!"

_Yeah, you're a good mother_, thought Calleigh, looking at the soiled child, the cigarette smoke settling over him, and the television that probably blared soap operas and reality programming 24/7.

"Theresa was a good girl, Mr. Delko," continued Vicki, her eyes on Eric. "A good friend to me. Looked out for me. For Brandon, too. I can't believe anyone would want to hurt Theresa. She was class, you know?"

Eric nodded. "She ever mention anyone she was afraid of... worried about?"

Vicki leaned back in her chair, and took another drag from the cigarette, thinking. "There was one guy... creepy older guy. She'd just met him a couple of days ago... he was nobody special, you know? Just some perv... gotta lot of 'em around here. You learn how to go about your business, ignore 'em, you know?"

Again, Eric nodded. "She describe him to you? Say what it was about him that bothered her?"

The girl sat up, leaned forward and tapped her cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, affording Eric a view of generous breasts confined by a too-tight halter-top. As the ashes fell from the cigarette, she looked up at him, her alert eyes trying to gauge any possible interest. "One thing she mentioned... she said he had a weird voice."

"Weird?" asked Calleigh. "In what way?"

The girl ignored Calleigh, allowing her eyes to remain on Eric. "She said he kept gasping for air when he spoke; he made a gurgling or burp-like noise."

"Did she mention anything specific that he said?"

"No... just that he made her skin crawl. That's all. You think he's the guy that did it?" she asked.

"We don't know. We're just trying to get as much information at this point as we can."

Calleigh rummaged in her back pocket, pulling out a card. "Ms. Savaliski, thanks for your time; we appreciate it. If you think of anything else, please call me... okay?"

"Sure," the woman replied, standing up.

She walked them toward the door. Eric was about to follow Calleigh outside when Vicki stepped in front of him. "How about you? You got a card? I might remember something, you know?"

Eric smiled, hiding his distaste. _Yeah_, he thought, _sure you will_. "Here you go," he replied, handing her a card, ''in case you think of something later."

She grinned, her sharp little eyes watching him. "I sometimes have a real good memory, if I think real hard."

"Yeah, I'll bet you do," he said, allowing the door to close behind him.

Before Horatio could play the DVD, Frank Tripp knocked and opened the office's door. "Need some help?" he asked.

Horatio felt the woman beside him tense. "It's okay - this is Frank Tripp. He's a detective and one of my best friends. No need to worry."

He motioned Frank inside. "Come in, Frank. This is Catherine Kent. We're about to listen to a DVD she received."

Frank dipped his head in Catherine's direction. "Ma'am." Catherine was too nervous to respond.

"Okay," said Horatio, "let's go."

The room went silent for a few seconds as the three people waited anxiously for the DVD to begin. Soon, the silence was broken by the jarring pops and hisses that earlier generations had grown used to hearing on vinyl recordings of music. It was quickly apparent that the DVD was a recording of an old song.

The blankness of the computer screen slowly resolved itself into an image of a crude heart that had been jaggedly cut from bright red construction paper. The bizarre and chilling image remained frozen on the screen as the sound of musical strings began to fill the room. The age of the original recording made the instruments sound tinny and odd, giving the strings a ghostly effect. Finally, the voice of the singer wafted eerily through the small office...

_The loveliness of Paris seems somehow sadly gay  
>The glory that was Rome is of another day<br>I've been terribly alone and forgotten in Manhattan  
>I'm going home to my city by the Bay<em>

_I left my heart in San Francisco  
>High on a hill, it calls to me<br>To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars  
>The morning fog may chill the air, I don't care<em>

_My heart waits there in San Francisco  
>Above the blue and windy sea<br>When I come home to you, San Francisco  
>Your golden sun will shine for me<em>

Frank looked at Horatio. "Tony Bennett?" he asked. "What the hell?"

Horatio turned to Catherine. She had gone pale. He couldn't understand it. The song seemed perfectly innocuous to him - the tune banal and the lyrics insipid. "Catherine?" he asked, raising his voice above the music.

"Keep listening," she whispered.

Horatio looked again at the computer screen. The paper heart was still there, and the music continued playing.

Suddenly a whispery voice imposed itself over the music.

_"There now, young miss, stop squirming so... Like the song, do you? Rather fitting, from what I understand. Would you like to sing along?"_

Horatio's brows drew together as he unconsciously moved closer to the computer, his ears intent on the strange breathy voice that vied for dominance with the recorded music. He heard a strange noise, like the ripping away of something. He glanced quickly in Frank's direction. The other cop returned his stare, a peculiar look on his face.

Just as Horatio was about to turn his attention back to the computer, he heard piercing, agonized screams.

He quickly looked at Catherine. She had her hands held tightly against her ears. Her features were screwed up in terror, with eyes tightly closed and lips clamped securely together. He could see the effort she was making to control her horror at the appalling sounds emanating from the computer.

And still the screams continued, almost overtaking the music.

_"That's right, miss, sing along... sing your heart out!" _whispered the recorded voice, while sly and silken laughter bubbled up between the labored words.

The lyrics on the DVD began to repeat as a sound of - _sawing?_ - was heard. The screams grew louder, louder... and then died off...

The last audible sound was Bennett's voice, the track stuck on the same lyric, over and over -

_I left my heart in San Francisco  
>I left my heart in San Francisco<br>I left my heart in San Francisco_

And then... silence. The screen went blank.

After a moment, Horatio ejected the DVD from the computer. He stared at it, and then placed it in its plastic cover.

"Christ," said Frank, clearly shaken. "What the hell was that?"

Horatio swallowed hard. He looked at Catherine, at a loss as to what to say. He needn't have worried because she suddenly spoke up.

"That, gentlemen, was my husband's valentine to me," she said, and then fainted.

**To be continued.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Chapter 6**

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter 6 - A Conversation in the Park

"Eric, take this back to the lab. Do the usual - dust the case for prints, have Mike Denton run a sound analysis of the recording. You know the drill." Horatio handed the DVD and case, now ensconced in a baggie, to the CSI, and then turned his attention to Calleigh.

"Sister Mary-Martha is pulling a list together of the delivery people. I want you to take a look at it once she has it together. Find out what you can. I want to know who came in today, what time, and why. I want to know what was in each delivery. Someone deposited this little present here... I want to know who. Understand?"

Both CSIs nodded. Their boss seemed tense, his tone more clipped than usual; silence seemed a good option at the moment.

"I also want Ms. Kent's office searched. Let's get Ryan and Natalia on this. I want to find out if anyone's been in there who shouldn't have been."

Frank spoke up. "Perhaps the package wasn't delivered this morning. Think it could have been left sometime earlier, maybe during the night?"

"I don't know... I'm grasping at straws, Frank. If someone did get inside, maybe we can pick up some trace from him. Doesn't hurt to look around. Got any better ideas?" The sharpness of his tone quelled additional comment.

Horatio paused. He and his team members were standing outside the front of the church. His eyes wandered over to the Hummer. Catherine sat in the front, head resting against the back of the seat and her eyes closed.

Frank noticed the object of Horatio's attention. "She's had a nasty shock. D'you think she's okay?"

Frowning, Horatio shrugged. "I don't know. We'll soon find out." He turned his attention back to Calleigh and Eric. "What about you two - did you find out anything this morning?"

"Not a lot," said Eric. "We talked with the vic's best friend. Seems the girl was creeped out by some joker. Older guy, weird voice. Not a lot to go on."

Horatio's eyes grew alert. "Did she say what was weird about his voice?"

Calleigh spoke up. "She said Ms. Lopez mentioned that the voice was sort of burpy... gasping."

Horatio looked at Frank. "Did you notice anything odd about the voice on the DVD?"

"Christ," said Frank, "everything was odd about that DVD... but, yeah... the guy's voice was peculiar... like he had difficulty stringing too many words together. Like he was out of breath... think he has emphysema or something like that?"

"Who knows," said Horatio, thinking. "He could have been using some sort of device to disguise his voice. We'll see what Denton has to say." His eyes again turned toward the Hummer. "And Miss Kent."

"You think the guy on the recording is her old man?"

"I'm not sure. I intend to find out though."

"Well, good luck with that." Frank looked at the woman sitting in the car. "What did she call that recording? A 'valentine' from her husband? That's one hell of a valentine. Damned creepy – that old song, the voice... the weird sounds while the woman was screaming. Who would stage this sort of thing?"

"Who, indeed?" Horatio frowned. "We need to find out who that voice belongs to... I'm thinking he may be our connection between the murder of Ms. Lopez and the DVD Catherine received."

Horatio's frown deepened. "I've felt all along the killer was trying to send us a message... but perhaps it's Catherine the message is intended for... those screams on the recording, Frank... I don't think it was staged... I think it may have been our victim."

Frank nodded, his face grim. The thought had occurred to him.

As the men were speaking, they noticed Charlie come hobbling down the church steps toward the Hummer. "Frank, I'm going to see what Charlie wants. Calleigh, Eric – keep me posted. Tell Denton to make the sound analysis a priority, please."

Horatio intercepted Charlie before he reached the Hummer. "Charlie? Something you need?"

The older man stopped and squinted into the sunlight that was obscuring his view of Horatio's face. "I was going to speak with Sister Cat."

"Yes, I can see that. Charlie, this isn't a good time. Why don't you talk to me? What is it that you wanted to tell Ms. Kent?"

The man frowned and painfully shifted his considerable weight from his bad leg to his good, leaning heavily on the cane that supported him. "I just wanted to see how she was; I heard she fainted. I heard all that screaming, and then I heard about her passing out."

Horatio stared intently at the heavy man before him. There was something peculiar in the man's expression. "Charlie, are you sure you don't know how that package got into Ms. Kent's office?"

The man looked uncomfortable. "No sir... I don't know a goddam thing about it." Charlie paused, realizing he had slipped into profanity. "Beg your pardon, sir."

Horatio sighed. "Okay, Charlie. Look, I'll tell Ms. Kent you were concerned about her." He thought for a minute. "There is something you can do for her..."

Charlie looked happier. "What's that?"

"She's not coming back to the office today. We're going to search it, so it's going to be closed to everyone but my people. Here's the thing, can you get those cats out of her office? Maybe Sister Mary-Martha can take care of them."

"I'll take care of 'em. You tell Sister Cat she ain't got to worry about those kittens. I'll make sure they're okay."

"Good man. Thanks, Charlie."

Horatio watched as the man hobbled back toward the church. Charlie turned his head briefly, caught Horatio's eye, and then quickly looked away. Horatio didn't doubt the man's regard for Catherine, but something seemed not quite right.

Catherine opened her eyes and looked at him when Horatio, opening the door on the driver's side of the car, slid into the seat next to her. She watched as he pulled on his sunglasses. His manner was remote and she grew uneasy as he turned the ignition key and the vehicle came to life.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"Away from here," he said tersely. "I could use a change of scenery... what about you?"

She sat up in the seat, suddenly concerned. "I can't just leave," she protested.

"You _can_ – especially since your office is off limits for now. I'm having a team search it and dust for prints."

"What? You can't do that! That's... that's an invasion of privacy!"

Taking his eyes from the road, he glanced at her. "Got something to hide?"

"Of course not –"

"Then let it go. Let's take a ride."

Catherine just stared at him. He looked grim, and the sunglasses hid whatever emotion his eyes might chance to give away. She had the sudden unsettled feeling that _she_ was the guilty party. But why? She'd done nothing wrong.

"Am I under arrest for something?"

"Nope."

"Then what is this all about?" she asked, puzzled.

"Just enjoy the ride. There will be time enough for explanations."

That seemed to be the end of it for him. He kept his gaze on the road and for several minutes said nothing. Then, out of the blue, he remarked, "Your cats are okay."

"What?"

"Your cats... they're okay. I had to clear them out of the office. Charlie is taking care of them... thought you'd want to know."

Again she considered protesting the disruption to her office, but thought better of it as she studied him. Remembering how kind – no, _sweet_ – he'd been earlier, she wondered what had happened to the gentle man who had called her 'sweetheart' and who had lightly caressed her face. He now looked forbidding and unapproachable. _Why?_

Was it because she'd acted so childishly, passing out in the office? _Well, if he knew.._. _if he only knew..._

Now, miles away from the church and that disturbing DVD, the phantoms of her past began to recede. Not completely – but enough that she could think rationally. The fear that had engulfed her back in the office was manageable again. It occurred to her that Horatio's distant manner was perhaps helping her regain control; had he been too sympathetic, she probably would have begun blubbering like a baby. The thought of so exposing herself caused a wave of self-loathing to course through her. _She would not be a coward! She would not!_

It was that song... that awful song. And the memories that came flooding back with the first few chords. It wasn't her heart that she'd left in San Francisco. It was her innocence. Never again would she be that innocent, that trusting. And never again would she feel entirely safe.

She wasn't safe. Not as long as he could still reach out to her. How had that been possible?

Deep in thought, she'd scarcely realized Horatio had pulled into a parking space near a quiet and pretty little park. He got out of the car and walked around to her side. Opening the door, he offered her his hand.

"C'mon, let's go for a walk." When at first she didn't move, he reached for her hand, and gently but firmly urged her from the car. "Let's go. We can both use a little fresh air."

Guiding her toward the mouth of a trail that went deep into the park, he sensed her reluctance to accompany him. "It's okay. It's peaceful here; it will give us a chance to talk."

He could see by her expression she wasn't crazy about the idea of talking, but at this point he didn't really care. She had information – he was sure of it. And he was determined to get it.

A vendor with a beverage and hot dog cart was stationed at the beginning of the trail. "You hungry?" he asked Catherine. She shook her head no. Turning to the merchant, he offered him a bill. "Couple of waters, please," he said.

"Here, take this." He handed one of the bottles over to Catherine. "It's a hot day, you'll need it."

They walked along in silence, down a pretty, meandering pathway. The park was quiet, and they saw no one. After passing several benches during their walk, Horatio finally pointed toward one and motioned they should sit.

He unscrewed the cap from his water and drank deeply, listening to the birds in the park. To Catherine's surprise, she started to relax in the peaceful setting. She felt far removed from what had transpired at Saint Ignatius. Sitting next to Horatio beneath a canopy of leafy green trees, she felt more tranquil. Tentatively, she opened her own water and took a sip.

Horatio watched her from behind his sunglasses. When she seemed calm, he began. "Okay, Catherine, let's talk about that recording... the voice on the DVD – was it familiar to you?"

"No... That was the first time I'd ever heard it."

"Are you sure?" he asked, removing his sunglasses and looking at her intently.

"Horatio, you heard that voice – how horrible it was! Could you ever forget it?"

"No... No, I don't suppose I could." He said nothing for a moment, playing with the side pieces of the sunglasses. "Tell me about your husband," he finally said.

He sensed the abrupt shudder that went through her and restrained himself from drawing her close. A part of him wanted to reach out to her and assure her that everything was okay. But stronger than that was twenty-five years of relying on a cop's instincts; he needed answers, and his instincts told him the best way to get them was by remaining unemotional. He glanced at her, watching as her lips moved soundlessly, as though she was having difficulty forming words.

After a moment, she gained control. "Joe," she whispered. "Joe Barton."

"Barton? But your last name is Kent..."

"After the divorce, I changed back to my maiden name."

"You're divorced?"

"You seem surprised," she said quietly.

He shrugged slightly. "I am... before you fainted, you said the recording was a valentine from your husband."

She drew a deep breath. "I was upset... I misspoke."

"How long have been you been divorced?"

"Three years."

"So you haven't seen him in three years?"

"I haven't seen him in _five_ years. Not since he was imprisoned."

"What's he in prison for?"

Catherine's gaze nervously scanned the trees and shrubs. In spite of the day's heat, a clammy chill traveled up her arms. What had seemed so pretty and peaceful earlier now seemed deserted and dangerous. Were they alone? Was anyone watching? Would she ever be safe again?

"Catherine?" he prompted.

She met Horatio's eyes. "Murder. He's in prison for murder."

"How much do you know about me, Horatio?"

"Not much," he acknowledged, looking into her pretty eyes. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

Sighing heavily, she paused, unsure how to begin. Horatio waited. He needed her to open up – for her sake as much as that of the murdered Theresa Lopez.

"My family is prominent in the business community... we were founders of a large law firm that specializes in corporate law. Maybe you've heard of them – Kent, Barton & Craig.

"My grandfather and several of his closest friends established the firm during the 1940s. It quickly grew in prominence and prestige. So did the inflated egos. You see, Kent, Barton & Craig is not just a law firm; it's a 'family'. Our own rarified little community – we know the 'best' people and _only_ the 'best' people. We don't mix with outsiders very much." Horatio heard the derision in her voice.

"You see, we don't deem them _worthy_ of us." Short, bitter laughter made its way past her lips. "An amusing thought, in retrospect. From a young age, Horatio, it was hammered into our heads that the firm is everything, the firm provides, the firm protects, and only members of the firm are trustworthy confidantes and companions. The firm is the family."

"Well," remarked Horatio, "that's rather bizarre, isn't it? Damned peculiar... did everyone feel this strange allegiance?"

She nodded. "Pretty much. We'd take vacations together, gather for group holidays... our parents, aunts and uncles, encouraged us to seek our friends and partners within the group. Over the years, minus the occasional exception, we've become a closed society with a lot of marrying within our circle. We all go to law school and we all stay in the 'family'. End of story."

Horatio's brows rose. "Well, not quite... You're not part of the firm. What did you call it? 'A closed society'... Tell me, how did all that togetherness sit with you?"

"Growing up, it was all I knew. My father had married outside the firm... my mother was well connected in South America. Her parents ran a large coffee plantation. His marriage to my mother was seen as advantageous to the firm... extending their influence. Even so, my father went to his father for permission to marry her. It's just the way we did things.

"Until my divorce... until my association with Saint Ignatius, all of my contacts had been confined to the firm. We went to the same churches, universities, law schools. There was always someone from our inner circle nearby. You were never lonely. It was... comforting. At least back then... It wasn't until later that I questioned any of it. Much later. After my marriage to Joe, in fact.

"It was the same for Joe... and I sometimes wonder if that lack of... diversity... played a part in what he later became. He had no judgment in spite of his brilliance. And, in the end, no empathy... or compassion."

Horatio watched Catherine's face as she said these things. Her words struck him as enigmatic and fantastical. _A law firm that operated as a closed society?_

"It never occurred to me to try to break away from any of it... not until things spiraled out of control... it's not an easy thing to do, leaving the family's influence."

"Yet, you did manage to break away."

"Professionally? Yes... to a certain extent. But I'm still part of the 'family'. You can't escape your heritage, Horatio, no matter how much you try. And I have tried... I have tried."

Catherine's words disturbed Horatio. There was an element of truth to them that darkened his outlook momentarily. How many times had the influence of his own dysfunctional family reached out to reclaim him, reclaim his brother? And often at times least expected. He'd be on top of the world, feeling that life was good – and something from his past would suddenly rear up and cause him to despair that he could ever escape the Caine family legacy. These were disquieting periods, and a depression would settle over him, and he'd wonder if he'd always be the guarded kid who struggled fruitlessly to control an unhappy and uncertain existence.

_Yes, it's an ugly truth, _he thought. _For good or bad, we remain the product of our upbringing. _

Wanting to leave the sour thought behind, he forced his attention back to Catherine's words.

"... Still, I'm the odd duck in the family, leaving behind the practice of law... trying to carve out a new life. A life they have little sympathy for, and even less patience."

She stopped speaking and began fiddling with the cap on her water bottle.

"Tell me about Joe," said Horatio abruptly, realizing she was reluctant to continue. "Like you, he was a member of the firm?"

She stared at the bottle in her hands and nodded. "Josiah Barton III, named for his grandfather. His grandfather was my own grandfather's best friend and partner in establishing the firm."

"I gather you saw him at the firm's gatherings? Is that how you got to know him?"

She nodded. "The first time I saw him I was a young girl... perhaps fourteen or so. I had such a crush on him. He was eight years older, and he seemed so... so smooth, so sophisticated. He was tall, good-looking, charming. He was magnetic, really. He drew your attention to him." She shivered suddenly. "Hard to believe it, but I was crazy about him at the time, but so were were all the girls in our circle.

"Because of the age difference, he didn't pay much attention to me beyond the casual hello. It would have been best if it had stayed that way."

Catherine unscrewed the cap on her water bottle, and took a long drink. Horatio watched her from the side, noting the working of her slender throat. There was something vulnerable in the movement, and it touched him. She talked with assurance, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of fear in her voice when she spoke of her ex-husband.

"But things didn't stay that way, did they?" he asked gently, determined to hear the rest of the story.

"No, they didn't. Ten years went by... I finished university, then law school. Upon graduation I went to work for the firm."

Horatio looked at her with some surprise.

"You seem astonished," she smiled.

"It's just... well, it's a far cry from what you're doing now. I didn't realize that you'd actually practiced law. How did you like it?"

"Like it?" She looked puzzled. "Whether or not I liked it wasn't part of the equation, Horatio. It was expected that I'd join the firm. Anyone with any aptitude went to law school... that was the understanding.

"Once I began working for the firm, it was decided by the partners that I'd be sent to San Francisco. An important branch office was being opened. It was a big deal – and it was being headed up by Joe, who had moved there a few years prior as part of its establishment.

"Joe's a very analytical man, very precise and detailed. He was the perfect person for the firm to place in charge of the new office. Not only was he the most dynamic male of our generation, he was the smartest. I think the partners considered him the ultimate flowering of the firm's social policy of intermarriage between its members. Bright, outgoing, good looks – he seemed to have it all."

Horatio cocked his head. "It's been my experience that no one has it all, Catherine."

"Maybe not, but he was something in those days, Horatio. He'd walk into a room and people would pay attention. Corny as it sounds, the air around him seemed to come alive with electricity. He had influence. People responded to him. I know I did. I was mesmerized.

"You see, I'd always been the Plain Jane of my circle – pretty enough, but nothing special. My parents called me 'the smart one'. Well, maybe not so smart, in hindsight. But imagine my surprise, how thrilled I was, when it seemed I'd captured the notice of the charismatic Joe Barton. What a time that was..." Her eyes softened, losing focus slightly, as they seemed to go to some faraway place that only she could see.

"He took me under his wing when I arrived. At first, everything was business... but that slowly began to change. He made me feel pretty, Horatio..."

"But you are pretty, Catherine," he answered softly.

Her eyes focused and she turned to him. "You're kind. I'm pretty enough, I guess. But Joe... he made me feel desirable, sensual. Around him, I felt exciting and provocative. It was a new experience for me. He has the most incredible eyes... I've never seen eyes like his before. Very pale blue, almost colorless... but when he'd look at me in those days, they would seem to light up from somewhere deep inside him. It was... extraordinary. Exciting."

A shadow crossed her face. "Later, those eyes lit up with things stranger than love or passion... I couldn't stand to look at them any longer!" She closed her eyes briefly, as if trying to will a memory away.

A moment later, she opened them. Looking at Horatio, she shrugged. "These are not pleasant things to remember."

He spoke earnestly, his eyes suddenly sympathetic. "I know that... but I need to understand."

Catherine nodded. "I know... okay...

"I was only supposed to be in the Bay Area for six months. During that time, Joe took me all over town – restaurants, bars, museums. What's the old-fashioned phrase? _Swept me off my feet._ Yes, that's exactly it. He introduced me to all sorts of people in the Bay Area. Important people." She offered Horatio a twisted smile, remembering. "He was proud of me. He liked introducing me to people.

"It was romantic. And when it was time for me to return to Miami, he didn't want me to go. Nor did I want to. I was feeling melancholy at the prospect... On what was to have been my last night in San Francisco, he took me out to dinner and at the end of the meal – in front of all the other patrons – he got down on one knee... And he asked me to marry him. It was very dramatic... like a scene from an old black-and-white movie."

Horatio shook his head. "A proposal after only six months?"

She nodded.

"And you said yes?"

"I did. I was in love with him. I felt like Cinderella, staying late at the ball. So stupid. I realize that now." She was silent for a moment.

"But, Horatio, he was different then. How could I have known he would change so much?" she asked, her voice suddenly tense. She squeezed relentlessly the plastic bottle she held in her hands. "How could I have known? There were no signs... not then."

Horatio reached over and removed the crushed bottle from her fingers. "When did things begin to change?"

"About a year into our marriage... when we became acquainted with Emerson and Faith Fosdick."

Nodding to Calleigh and Eric, Tom Loman walked into Mike Denton's lab room. "Calleigh, Eric... you paged me? You need something from me?"

"That's right, Tom," said Calleigh, wearing a winsome smile. "We'd like you to listen to something, and give us your opinion."

Eric pointed toward Denton. "Yeah, Tom, we need you to listen to some sound fragments from a DVD. Mike, you want to explain?" he asked.

"Sure," said Mike. "Look, Doc, this DVD has several layers of sound data, but for the moment we're interested in two, and I've segmented them out for your listening enjoyment."

Loman smiled. "Enjoyment, heh? Okay. I don't see what this has to do with me, but I'm game."

"Okay. You ready?"

Loman nodded.

Denton hit a button and he and the others focused on a monitor that displayed a moving graph of electronic noise patterns. Minus the music, screaming and other background noise heard earlier by Horatio, Catherine and Frank, the small party listened attentively to the isolated voice coming through the speakers.

Calleigh rubbed her arms as she listened to the ghoulish inflection, trying to massage out the shiver that suddenly washed over her. Eric kept his eyes on Loman, wondering what the doctor would make of the strange voice they were hearing.

Again Calleigh shuddered, listening to the whispery, laughing voice: _That's right, miss, sing along... sing your heart out!_

The voice playback suddenly ended and all eyes in the room turned toward Loman.

"Well!" said Tom, his expression puzzled. "That was charming. I still don't understand... what can I do for you?"

"Tom, the man's voice," replied Calleigh, "did you notice its strangeness?"

Loman took a deep breath, thinking. "Hm... yes. I did. It was labored. He was laboring to get each word out." He frowned. "Mr. Denton, can you replay the voice again, please?"

Denton did, and Loman listened intently. When the segment concluded, Tom nodded. "Yes, a definite effort to get the words out."

"What might cause that?" asked Eric.

"A compromised larynx... or an injured trachea." Tom's brows drew together. "This fellow commit a murder?"

"We don't know, Tom," replied Calleigh.

"The, uh, air that ran between his words... I've heard those sounds before. It's the noise of air being pushed through scarred tissue as it enters and exits the throat. I'd say this gentleman at some point in his past sustained serious damage to the trachea, perhaps even the larynx."

"Scar tissue?" Eric thought about that. "So it wouldn't be a recent injury?"

"I shouldn't think so. It would take time for the scar tissue to form... I would guess the injury occurred several years ago."

"So much for checking the hospitals," remarked Calleigh quietly, to no one in particular.

"Ready for the next segment?" asked Denton, looking at Eric.

"Next segment?" asked Loman.

Eric nodded. "Yeah... what do you think this noise is? We're going to play the DVD in its entirety, then go back and isolate one particular sound. Tell us what you think."

Denton hit the play button, and the DVD's eerie music filled the room. Loman's face was expressionless until he heard the noise Eric had made reference to... accompanied at the same time by screaming from the woman on the recording.

When it concluded, Eric was about to have Denton replay the segment, minus the music and the screaming. Loman stopped him.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Delko. I can identify that sound without hearing the recording again."

Calleigh looked at him. "What do you think it is, Tom?"

Loman's lips folded into a thin line of regret. "It's the sound of a surgical saw... at work. Whoever was screaming on that recording is very likely dead."

Fat Jack Tolliver stood outside Josiah Barton's cell, quietly studying the inmate within. The man lay on the prison cot, his arms folded beneath his head, staring sightlessly at the stained ceiling above him.

"Well, dearie," said the fat man, "your little secret errand was accomplished. I had the boy contact your pigeon. Creepy he was, too... the boy was nearly scared shitless. Just what was that all about, darlin'? What nasty piece of business is it you're up to?"

The inmate sat up slowly, turning enigmatic eyes toward Tolliver. "Thank you, Mr. Tolliver, I appreciate your... _cooperation_. As for the rest of it, I don't think you really need to know anything more. In fact, I don't think you'd really want to... would you?"

Looking into the man's eyes, Tolliver had an uneasy feeling he was standing at the Gates of Hell. If there was a soul behind those pale blue eyes, he couldn't see it.

"No, dearie," he replied, thinking better of things and slowly backing away from the cell. "No, I don't think I would."

**To be continued.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Chapter 7**

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Seven – "I Am Legion"

Horatio sat in the small hotel suite he'd booked for Catherine's stay. He could hear the water running from inside the bathroom as she freshened up. Reluctant to leave her just yet, he'd persuaded her to have dinner with him.

As he waited, his mind once again went over the bizarre story she'd shared with him earlier that day. In tortured bits and pieces, she had spoken of the Fosdicks, the strange and magnetic couple who had so quickly captivated her ex-husband. It was a strange story, and it continued to haunt him, making him uneasy in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He ran his hand quickly through his hair, trying to dispel the sense of eerie foreboding her words had created. Something was _off_. He had the disquieting feeling that he was being scrutinized by someone… no, some _thing_… His rational mind rebelled at the silly imaginings, and he pushed them aside. But there was one thought he couldn't push aside: the thought of Catherine returning to her house in the decaying neighborhood where Saint Ignatius was located, and perhaps meeting up with the same man who had accosted the hapless Theresa.

He wouldn't let her go back there. Not yet. He was too concerned that someone might be watching – _waiting_ – for her.

No, until he had an opportunity to check out her ex-husband and investigate his connection with Emerson and Faith Fosdick, he didn't want Catherine back at her house. He would like to order her to stay away from the church, but he wasn't very optimistic on that score. It had been hard enough to convince her to take up temporary residence in the hotel.

And yet, he knew she was terrified. He'd seen her reaction to the DVD. After her story, he began to understand why.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he rested his head against the soft cushions of the overstuffed sofa, thinking about the peculiar tale she had told him, a tale involving secret societies, strange loyalties, hallucinogenic drugs – and barbaric, disgusting rites.

She had only hinted at much of it, apparently unable to put the experiences into words. Impatient to get answers, Horatio had prodded her toward more precise answers during the drive to the hotel. But in the telling, she'd suddenly become physically ill, forcing Horatio to conclude the questioning as he quickly pulled off to the side of the road. Gently, and with the expertise of one who'd witnessed such episodes before, he had held her head outside the car's window as she physically expelled the memories she was unable to share verbally. Watching her struggle to regain her composure, he felt remorseful for having pushed so forcefully for answers.

_But he needed those answers, dammit! _He had a killer on the loose, one who had forcefully removed a girl's beating heart – and he had a crazy ex-husband who might be behind the chilling DVD sent to his former wife. And to what end? To frighten Catherine? Or something worse?

One thing that he had gotten out of Catherine especially disturbed him – and it involved animal sacrifice. Horatio knew that crimes committed against animals showed a brutality that often transferred itself to the commission of similar offenses against human beings. In recounting the ugly story, she told him that Fosdick's followers believed in the life-giving power of a beating heart… and that the hearts of poor creatures had been ripped from them. And used.

_But for what purpose?_ He could get no satisfactory answer from her.

Until today, it had not occurred to him to doubt Catherine's mental stability. He had observed her handling of the soup kitchen, the way she had calmly and kindly interacted with the despondent men and women who came in for a meal, and in the capable manner in which she organized the distribution of food. He had also witnessed the loyalty and affection she inspired from those serving alongside her.

She hadn't impressed him as a hysterical personality… except when speaking of Barton. It was clear she feared him, and when she spoke of him, she seemed to credit the man with an almost supernatural influence. What she had hinted at strained the credulity of Horatio's dispassionate, scientific mind. _Hell, it would strain the credulity of any sane person's brain!_

Catherine, however, certainly believed the story she'd told him and had turned white as she recalled how the Fosdicks, at first charming and engaging, had influenced her ex-husband. Under their tutelage, he had changed from the romantic and dashing man she had married into someone frightening… someone unrecognizable.

With a sudden chill, he remembered something she'd told him just before sickness overcame her.

"_He went away, Horatio – one day, Joe just disappeared. He looked the same – the features, the coloring, the voice… but it wasn't him! I know it sounds crazy, but the eyes…. the eyes that looked out from his face – those were not Joe's eyes. It wasn't him. It wasn't! And each night – each night, Horatio! – I lay next to him in our bed, knowing he wasn't Joe, but unable to prove it."_

In spite of his belief in Catherine's mental stability, Horatio wondered if there wasn't a small degree of hysteria in her personality. What did he really know about her? Was his attraction to her responsible for his willingness to listen to the ravings of someone perhaps in need of a mental evaluation?

_Was she having a nervous breakdown, and taking him along for the ride?_

But the thing was, she _wasn't _raving. She was terrified, but except for the brief fainting spell at the church when forced to again listen to the DVD, she'd pretty much held herself together.

Suddenly, Horatio felt the phone from inside his jacket begin to vibrate, pulling him from his unhappy thoughts. He sat up quickly, his movement cat-like and alert.

"Eric, what's happening?" he asked, his eyes recognizing the incoming call.

Eric's voice floated urgently over the radio waves. "Just checking in, H. You've been gone for a while… everything okay on your end?"

"Nothing for you to worry about. What do you have for me?"

"Calleigh and I ran the DVD for Denton, and then we pulled Loman in for a consult."

_"Tom?" _

"Yeah, after what Denton told us, we wanted him to listen to the recording... Cal thought there might be some medical reason for the wheezing noise the guy made whenever he spoke, and we figured Tom was the man to make that determination. But the doc was also able to identify the noise we heard in the background."

"And?"

"And he confirmed what we thought – it's definitely the sound of something being sawn. Here's the thing, H – he said it sounded a lot like a surgical saw. Tom thinks what we heard was surgery being performed – and without benefit of an anesthetic."

Eric paused for a moment, recalling the look on Loman's face as he'd shared that information with his colleagues. "Christ, H! This was the first time I ever saw a reaction from Tom to any of the stuff we witness… he's usually so deadpan… making the odd joke or remark… you can never tell what the guy is really thinking… but when he listened to the woman on that recording, he looked grim and had little to say afterward."

"It's one thing to examine a dead body, Eric… but a victim still alive, crying out in the throes of death? The audible evidence of… of such suffering is not something easily handled."

Eric said nothing, recalling his own reaction to the woman's agonized screams. He'd be willing to place a wager the woman hadn't been alive for long once the 'surgeon' began the grisly operation.

"What about our mystery man – what did Tom say about the voice? Was it a simulation of sorts, a trick to disguise his detection?"

"Doesn't seem so. Tom says he's heard voices like that before; it usually occurs when there's been trauma to the larynx."

Horatio thought about this for a moment as Catherine's remark about tortured animals and the removal of their hearts came back to him. He wondered if the surgeon were somehow connected with the strange events Catherine had recounted. It seemed too coincidental that the DVD turned up in Catherine's office just a day or two after Theresa Lopez's murder. And just what had happened to the surgeon's throat that caused the disturbing wheezing when he spoke?

"Eric... tell you what I want you to do. Have Denton run a search of all the databases for the following names: Josiah Barton, and Emerson and Faith Fosdick. Tell him to see what he can find out about them. Barton shouldn't be too difficult to nail down – apparently he's in prison. I want to know which prison and I want to know the details of the case. I'm thinking about paying Mr. Barton a little visit."

"Who is this guy? What's his connection to the surgeon?"

"I'm not sure there _is _one, but I intend to find out. Josiah Barton is Catherine's ex-husband. If what she's told me about him is accurate, expect some odd and nasty stuff to turn up on him."

"You think he's sending her a message?"

"That's exactly what I'm thinking."

"What about the Fosdicks?"

"Yes... what about them… Well, I think they might be Barton's playmates."

Eric digested that remark for a moment, perplexed by Horatio's statement and his odd tone. "Okay, I'll get Denton on it. Anything else?"

"No... not at present." Horatio glanced at his watch. "Go home, Eric. I think tomorrow is going to be a busy day... get some rest."

"Gladly. I've had enough of mad doctors and screaming women for one day."

_Yeah, me too, _thought Horatio.

He put the phone back in his pocket as Catherine came into the room. He looked up at her. "Ready?"

"I guess... can't say I'm all that hungry," she said, looking uncertainly around the suite. "Is all this really necessary?"

"Maybe not; _probably _not. But if your husband is involved, I don't care for the idea of you staying at your place. He may know where you live – he found out where you work. I want you here for a couple of nights. You can afford it, and prudence is never too expensive. I'm going to have an officer in the lobby. He'll keep an eye on things. The front desk knows to alert him if anyone asks for you."

She shivered. She didn't like the sound of this.

Watching her reaction, Horatio tried to reassure her. "Look," he said kindly, "I don't want you to worry about this. It's just a precaution. Okay?"

She nodded, looking at him with eyes that looked too bright in her pale face. "Okay," she whispered.

"Now let's go get something to eat. I'm not sending you back to this room until you eat something. I don't want you passing out again." He smiled, but he was serious. She hadn't eaten all day and he wanted her strong and alert. He held out his hand. "C'mon."

Calleigh laid two pairs of ivory chopsticks next to the plates and cartons she'd hastily set out on the kitchen table. She wasn't a fan of take-away food, especially Chinese, but Eric liked it and she didn't feel much like cooking tonight.

She was tired. More than that, she was disturbed. Hearing the screams of the girl on the DVD had upset her. Worse, Tom's remarks had made it too easy to imagine the horror and pain that the unfortunate woman had endured. It made her skin crawl.

_Just what are we dealing with? Was that Theresa Lopez on the recording? What kind of monster would remove someone's heart while she was still alive?_

Thinking about the ghastly images the recording conjured up, an involuntary shiver ran through Calleigh's body despite the kitchen's warmth.

She was so lost in thought that she failed to hear Eric's approach. He stood quietly behind her, reaching gently for her shoulders. She gave a little jump, and he tightened his hold slightly, pulling her tense body close to his chest.

"Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay?" he whispered, frowning. His warm breath lingered lightly against her skin.

Hearing his voice, feeling his touch, she slowly relaxed, leaning gently against him.

"Lord, you just took ten years off my life! What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?"

He smiled and brushed his lips against the side of her neck. "I didn't sneak up on you. You were a million miles away." He began to place feather light kisses against the softness of her skin. A sigh of pleasure escaped Calleigh's lips at the warmth of his mouth against the sensitive flesh.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm just jumpy. That damned DVD..."

She moaned softly as he began to run his hands lightly up and down her arms, his lips still on her neck. "Hm... that feels nice." She turned then and gave him a pretty smile. "You know, you keep that up and in a little while, I'll forget all about butchers with surgical tools..."

He drew her to himself, holding her close. "I'm happy to continue," he said, and brought his mouth down on hers with a passion that was sudden and thrilling. "God, Cal," he murmured against her lips, "no one makes me feel like this... _no one.._."

She broke away, shaken by her response to him. "Dinner –"

"Can wait," he interrupted. "Let's forget all that craziness on the DVD... The girl's shrieks over top that eerie music... I just want to get it out of my head for a while. There will be time enough tomorrow to think about all that."

He reached down, placing an arm beneath her knees. With a quick and fluid motion, he swung her up into his arms, grinning mischievously.

She started giggling. "What are you doing, you crazy person?"

"Making love to my girl. Love now, dinner later. Right?" He raised an eyebrow, giving her his best smile.

"Right," she replied.

Later, the two lovers sat at the kitchen table, wearing bathrobes and scarfing down the food they'd picked up earlier in the evening. The afterglow of their lovemaking still lingered, and for the time being, they'd managed to push back the day's horror.

Finally, Calleigh sat back from the table. With a satisfied sigh, she blew back several strands of hair that had fallen into her eyes. "That was good. I was famished."

Eric grinned. "Yeah, well... guess you worked up an appetite."

"Yeah, I guess I did."

"Hey, I've got something for you."

She raised her brows, watching him as he reached deep into the pocket of his flannel robe. He pulled out a small velvet box and placed it on the table, his index finger slowly pushing it across the table in her direction.

"What's this?" she asked, a puzzled expression on her face.

"Go on, open it."

Biting her lip, she paused for a moment before reaching for the tiny black box. Almost reluctantly, she opened it. Lying on a black velvet cushion was a ring, its small diamond set in gold. Shocked, she looked up at Eric, who had a goofy smile on his face.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his eyes dancing with expectation. "The diamond is small, but it has sentimental value… it was my grandmother's. Being the only male in the family, it came to me – to be given to my bride."

Calleigh looked at the ring again, and then raised troubled eyes to Eric. "I don't understand, Eric... what's this all about?"

"What do you mean 'what's it all about?' It's an engagement ring, Cal."

"Oh, Eric..." she replied, helplessly. "We haven't discussed marriage... we haven't even been together that long."

Some of the excitement drained from his eyes and his smile disappeared. "I thought you wanted this, Calleigh. I mean, we're good together, right? Wasn't it good for you, just now?"

Calleigh rose from the table and began to walk around the room. "Of course it was... but that's not what this is all about."

"Cal, sit down. Let's talk about this."

She stopped pacing and looked at him. "Eric, what about last night? The girls at the restaurant... the flirting. You're not ready to settle down."

"Those girls don't mean anything to me. It's just... just something I do... All the men in my family do it. It's in our blood. It's harmless." He stood up and went to her, brushing her blond hair back behind her shoulders. "You know how I feel about you. It's different, you and me. It's for keeps, you know?"

She looked into his eyes and sighed. "Honey," she said softly, "I can't accept that ring."

He frowned. "Don't you love me? I thought you wanted to settle down, have a couple of kids. I want that, too, Cal. I do... I want it with you."

Her fingers grazed the side of his cheek as she tried to soften the lines of sadness she saw forming around the corners of his beautiful mouth. "I think you're sincere... I think you mean that."

"I do," he said eagerly.

Placing two fingers gently against his lips, she said, "Shh... don't talk. Just listen. Just for a few minutes, okay?

"Honey, we're just not _there _yet, you know? You say those girls don't mean anything to you –"

"They don't!"

"Okay, okay... maybe to _you _they don't... but, Eric, they mean something to _me_. It makes feel empty inside when I see you flirting; it makes me feel you don't really... value me."

He bristled. "Christ, Cal, I just asked you to marry me."

"That's not the point," she said, trying to make him understand. "The point is how it makes me _feel_. And it makes me feel crummy.

"Eric, I don't think you're really ready for a wife just yet... and certainly not for children. You've... well, you've got some growing up to do..."

"If you feel that way, I don't know what you're doing with me. What the hell was all that just now in the bedroom? Just sex? Because that's not all it was for me." He started to turn away, but she restrained him.

"It wasn't _just sex_. And I'm here with you because I'm hoping things will change... You need to figure out what it is you really want, Eric. Is it me? A family? Or do you just want to be the good-looking guy that the girls go nuts over? I don't want a flirt, baby. I want a strong man, someone I can depend on... I want to be the only one in the room you want to impress."

She watched him as he silently digested her words. She worried she'd been too blunt, but it had to be said. She did love Eric, loved him with a passion that surprised and delighted her. His charm and magnetism disarmed her… and that was the problem.

Calleigh had experienced her share of disarming men, men who said they loved you but still went off and did hurtful things. Her thoughts briefly touched on her charming father. He professed to love her and her mother, yet it didn't stop him from doing what he wanted, in spite of the hurt it caused them.

She wanted a real man. She wanted someone who'd put her and their children first. She didn't want a charming rogue who was an emotional child.

Eric seemed to come to a decision and, reaching for her, he kissed her forehead. "I don't need that stuff, Calleigh. I can stop it. I _will _stop it. I don't think about it... it's just who I've always been, you know?"

"I know."

"So... you're turning me down?"

"For the time being."

"I love you, Cal."

She smiled. "Then prove it. Grow up. And _then _I'll marry you."

Catherine picked at her dinner, her eyes focused unseeingly on the cooling salmon in front of her. She could sense Horatio's eyes watching her, and they made her uncomfortable.

That afternoon, in the privacy of the park, she'd shared with him some of the fantastical story of Joe's strange relationship with Emerson and Faith Fosdick. For the past several years, she'd tried to forget the frightening couple who drew them into their social orbit. It had been accomplished so swiftly, and their hold had been like a noose, slowly but surely tightening. She had been the one to see it, not Joe. No, not Joe. He had been so taken with them, finding them exotic and exciting.

Exotic. Exciting...

Catherine had never found them so. From the beginning, there had been something dark and disturbing about the urbane Emerson and his stunning wife.

Thinking of Faith, Catherine suppressed an urge to shudder. She recalled the woman's waist-length hair and the way it curled Medusa-like about her shoulders and waist, its paleness the color of fresh snow. The pure whiteness of it was surprising against Faith's flawless tanned skin, and contrasted jarringly with her strange, unreadable eyes. Startling eyes, they were… almost _reptilian _in their opacity.

Yes… reptilian. That was a good word for the beautiful Faith. She had all the danger and exoticism of an alluring yet deadly snake. The graceful movements of her tall, slender body had always seemed serpentine to Catherine – Faith didn't just walk into a room. No, she appeared to glide into it, her locomotion quiet, dangerous… eerily enticing.

Joe had seen none of that. All he saw was a beautiful, elegant woman, one who charmed and excited.

And Emerson! His were the looks of a 1920s matinee idol: the strong jaw, the flashing white teeth so startling against lips as red and voluptuous as a woman's. It made her cringe to think of his cool, elegant fingers upon her flesh. Those fingers… long, tapered, exquisitely manicured, and so, so cold. The feel of his flesh upon hers – that had been Joe's doing… something new. _Exciting. Exotic._

How quickly the pair had become a fascinating addiction for the uncomplicated, romantic man she'd fallen in love with – how had it happened? One day he was her sweet Joe… and then, almost overnight, he was a stranger. A stranger with hooded eyes, who slowly, methodically forced her to take part in depravities she never would have imagined.

Unable to eat, Catherine pushed the plate away, finally meeting Horatio's eyes.

She had only told him some of the tale… the late night meetings with the Fosdicks and their friends – _followers – _and their distasteful rites. But she didn't tell him everything. Dismayed, she had watched Horatio's face as it took on a look of astonishment, his features growing cloudy with doubt… doubt about her sanity, she feared.

"Catherine? Can't you eat more than that? You've hardly touched anything on your plate." He was still watching her.

His voice was kind, concerned, but Catherine was uncomfortable. _Did he think she was crazy?_

"I'm sorry, Horatio. I just can't."

Her eyes drifted over to the table nearest them. A bottle of white wine sat chilling in a small silver bucket next to the table's edge. That wine suddenly looked very compelling to Catherine. Wanting to escape the memories dredged up by the day's events, she experienced a keen and sudden desire for the numbing effects of alcohol.

She turned her glance toward Horatio, touching his hand lightly. "I wouldn't mind a glass of wine… what do you think?"

Horatio had seen the longing look on her face as she gazed at the bottle and guessed at her intention. He didn't think she'd be stopping with just one glass. "I think… well, I think maybe that's not such a good idea. Not _tonight_, sweetheart."

She looked at him, surprised.

"Catherine, until we figure out what's going on, I think it's wise to keep our minds alert. You told me some pretty bizarre things today. I need a little time to process them. And you need to think about what you've told me…"

She said nothing. A feeling of shame washed over her at his words. Her face suffused with scarlet, she glanced away, unable to continue looking at him.

Horatio noticed the sudden telltale color on her face, and he wondered what memories she hadn't shared with him.

He didn't like it.

He intended to find out the whole story on Catherine. He wanted to know why a beautiful woman buried herself away in a soup kitchen in a seedy part of town – and why she played down her beauty, preferring to hide it behind plain clothing and a no-nonsense air. At first he'd taken her commitment to the community of Saint Ignatius as proof of a compassionate heart that found its reward in social activism. He didn't doubt that she possessed such a heart; he'd seen evidence of it.

But for the first time, Horatio wondered if there might not be more to it than that; perhaps there was another reason for her vocation.

Was there some offense, some sin, she imagined herself guilty of, something so painful that she hid herself away, intent on helping others… almost as if trying to achieve _penance_?

Perhaps... if so, he could understand that.

He knew all about guilt.

And the need for absolution…

It was almost midnight.

The creature that was Josiah Barton lay motionless on his cot in the semi-darkness of his prison cell. The glaring, intrusive bright lights that studded the ceiling of the cellblock had been turned off for the evening, but lights inside a prison were never completely darkened. Buried in the floor snaking down the lonely prison corridor were small, recessed lights and they cast an anemic green glow into the cells.

_Midnight_.

It was his favorite time – he loved the dim lighting of the night, the solitude afforded by sleeping men locked inside troubled dreams, and the uneasy silence that permeated the cellblock's atmosphere. It was an ominous silence occasionally punctuated by the snoring and snuffling heard from neighboring cells.

There was something comforting to him in the soft moans that accompanied the nightmares of restless men, and in the sounds of their squeaking cot springs as they thrashed fruitlessly from side to side, attempting to escape the demons that haunted their slumber. Barton smiled in the darkness, enjoying thoughts of the disturbing images that peppered the nether worlds of his fellow inmates' minds, oppressive images that held them hostage.

The imagining of it made him stronger. He fed on chilling dreams and unsettled sleep. His was a heart that embraced nightmares, finding solace in the dark places of the soul.

After all, Barton was a prince of the night, of the darkness.

It was in the darkness that he'd been resurrected. Made whole. _Improved_.

His thoughts slowly drifted to Catherine. So good. So… _righteous_. A being of light.

He would have loved to have seen her face when she listened to the DVD. In a previous life, he had loved her... loved her beauty, her goodness, her innocence. He had vague memories of the early years with her, his Catherine. She had evidenced such a passion for him.

No... not for _him_. The passion had been for _Barton_.

But now, he was _more _than Barton. He was _legion_.

It was odd how quickly she had seen something was amiss. He'd thought to fool her, seduce her toward the darkness. Such a queen she would have been! Just the consort for a prince of the night as he.

Sadly, it was not meant to be. She crossed him at every turn. She saw immediately that something was different about him. Several times, he had caught her in the act of watching him, covertly, confusion written across her lovely face. She was easy to read... his beautiful Catherine. She saw the image of Barton before her very eyes, and yet she sensed an alien presence.

Her fear had intoxicated him. He had loved forcing her to endure his _husbandly _caresses. At the moment of his release, he'd demand she'd look at him – and the horror in her eyes would push him to fulfillment.

She was _his_, his sweet Catherine. He claimed her. She had belonged to Barton. But now all that was Barton's belonged to him. Catherine would always be his... her fear was exhilarating to him, sexual in its potency, engorging in its strength.

It made him feel omnipotent. He _was _omnipotent.

Even now… thinking about her… he could feel himself rousing.

A smile worthy of the depths of hell appeared on his face as he remembered the last night with her... the night before they took him away. Her eyes had been dilated in fear. He remembered wondering at the time if someone could be scared to death.

Dearest Catherine... he'd wanted to make her perfect. To confer royal status upon her. She didn't seem to understand that perfection could only be achieved through purification. He knew he had to cut the impurities out of her... but ever so gently. Not for her the barbarism reserved for others, the less worthy ones. No… Catherine was his shining star. The prize above all others. It was Catherine who would fulfill his destiny.

It had been that way with the vessel. He'd been _special_.

He remembered the night that he'd joined with Barton. He – no, _they – _had been waiting for just such a vessel. That was when he seized his opportunity, pouring his essence into the mind of the man who had occupied the body. He had been the stronger one, and he felt the man who'd been Barton screaming in agony as he forced the invasive coupling of their spirits.

Even now, if he allowed himself to listen, he could hear Barton screaming inside him. But his was just one voice among many inhabiting this vessel. Barton was the weakest of them... he was dying.

The being called Barton didn't need him. He'd served his purpose. He who had once been Barton was now many. _Legion_.

He heard a loud and sudden groaning from one of the adjoining cells. The voice moaned piteously, caught in a nightmare it couldn't awaken from: "No, please, God… _no_! So cold… so cold… so dark…"

Barton grinned. _Fools_.

They understood nothing.

The man who had once been Josiah Barton was as good as dead.

What was left was _him_. And he was strong. He was willing to bide his time in this cell, gathering strength. Waiting. In the end, his purpose would be accomplished. He – _they _– would grow strong.

Invincible.

He was Legion.

_**To be continued…**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Chapter 8**

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Eight - Walking Through the Fire

"Hello, handsome," smiled Calleigh, glancing up from her microscope and noticing Horatio standing at the entrance to her work station. In a flash, the sunny smile vanished from her face and a worried frown replaced it. "Good Lord, Horatio, you look like you didn't sleep a wink last night."

Horatio slid onto the stool next the lab table. "I didn't - at least, not much," he admitted.

His neck and shoulders were tense after the sleepless night, and he couldn't resist massaging the tender area. "Eric was going to have Denton run an info check for me last night; do you know if anything has come through yet?"

"I haven't seen anything… I haven't had a chance to speak with Eric or Denton this morning."

"Denton's a wizard," said Eric, walking through the door at just that moment, waving a folder. "He always delivers. Here, H – just picked this up. I haven't looked at it yet.

Horatio took the proffered file and began silently reading its contents. Calleigh and Eric exchanged worried looks as Horatio's features tensed. "Christ," he whispered.

"What is it, H?" asked Eric.

Horatio looked up. "Seems Catherine's ex isn't too far from here. He's a 'guest' at the Miami Dade Correctional Facility."

"For?"

Horatio reviewed the file. "Seems he got a little rough with a server at The Boulevard."

"_The Boulevard?_ Phew... that's a pretty rare atmosphere," said Calleigh. "Miami's playpen for the 'Rich and Famous,' you know... you don't get in there unless you know someone or you have lots of money."

"Well, Mr. Barton has both contacts and money." He stared at some point to the right of Calleigh's head, his eyes focused on something only he could see. "It was my understanding he was imprisoned in San Francisco. At least, that is what Catherine led me to believe."

He shook his head, and focused on the file again. "Listen to this: while he was in San Francisco, he was arrested on charges of attempted murder..." Horatio paused, remembering. "Catherine mentioned murder charges."

"Did he serve time?"

Horatio smiled, but his look was anything but cheerful. "Guess who his attorney was?"

Calleigh and Eric looked at him blankly.

"William Peterson Hunter."

A low whistle escaped Eric's lips. "_Billy Hunter_... that's pretty damned impressive."

"You bet it is," said Horatio, his expression sour. "Hunter's the go-to guy for celebrities and bad little rich boys. He did his job well - Barton got off on a technicality." He continued reading the file. "No rap sheet prior to the charges in San Francisco. Before 'Frisco, he was the poster boy for charming dullness."

"Okay, so he left California – and came to Miami…why?"

Horatio said nothing, chewing his bottom lip. He suspected what lured Barton to Miami, and the thought made him anything but happy.

"You said he got rough with one of the girls at The Boulevard... how rough?" asked Calleigh.

Horatio pulled a photo from the file and handed it to her. The photograph was that of a beautiful brunette with short hair. Her long, slender neck was marred by deep purple and ugly brown bruises. But it was the eyes that bothered Horatio – sapphire blue and filled with a terrible confusion. She looked both terrified and stunned, seemingly surprised to find herself before a police camera, having her injuries captured on film and documented.

Studying the photo, Calleigh wondered if she should bring up the most startling aspect of the photograph. She raised her eyes to Horatio, but ever quick, he knew what she was thinking.

"Yeah," he said, "I see it, too. She looks very much like Catherine, doesn't she?"

It was true. The girl in the photograph bore an uncanny resemblance to Catherine, and it bothered Horatio.

"Maybe we should go see her?" asked Eric. "Find out what set Barton off... What do you think?"

"I think that's a fine idea," replied Horatio, still reading through the file. "Now, this - _this_ is interesting. Seems our boy has had one visitor - and one only. And she shows up every three or four weeks."

He handed another photograph to Calleigh. She could feel Eric looking over her shoulder. "Wow," he said, "she's beautiful… in a creepy way."

Calleigh looked at him, and so did Horatio. "Why do you say that, Eric?" she asked.

Eric looked uncomfortable. "I don't know... just a... a feeling. The eyes... I can't explain it." Eric turned the photograph over. Printed on the back was the name _FAITH FOSDICK._

Thinking, Horatio began tapping the top of the lab counter with his fingernail, unaware he was doing so. "_So_... that's one-half of the duo. Eric is right - there is something disturbing about the woman. Whenever Catherine mentions her, she turns pale. Well, she's our boy's regular visitor, his only visitor, in fact. Which begs the question: where's her _husband_?"

He began to rifle through the file, and found what he was looking for - a photo of Emerson Fosdick.

"Good Lord," remarked Calleigh, staring at Fosdick's image. "He looks like he escaped from an old movie, you know the kind I mean, the ones shown on that old movie channel..." She suddenly snapped her fingers: "I've got it! He looks like Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.!"

"Come again?" Eric looked at her blankly.

"He's one of the old-time movie stars; big in the twenties and thirties."

"How in the hell do you know this stuff?" asked Eric.

"When I was a little girl, I used to read my grandma's movie magazines." A brilliant, teasing smile flashed across her face. "I'm very well-rounded; I know all the _important _stuff!"

Horatio couldn't help but grin. Calleigh's enthusiasm for gossip magazines and TV shows was legend among the team, and the so-called 'bullet girl' took a great deal of teasing for it. "Yes ma'am, you do."

He continued reading the file. "Okay, people, this is also interesting. Seems Emerson is dead... committed suicide. And shortly after our boy, Josiah, managed to evade the murder charges in San Francisco."

"H, what does the file say about the charges in San Francisco? Any details?"

Horatio's lips thinned. "He beat up a woman in a parking garage... wait, it was the garage in the building in which he lived."

"With Catherine?" asked Calleigh.

"I assume so," said Horatio, frowning. "I believe they were still married at the time. I'll have to ask her about this." He looked at his friends. "She is holding out on me. She's upset, scared. I get that, but I've got to get her to talk."

Calleigh had taken the file from Horatio and was flipping through the pages. "Horatio, did you see the copy of the news article that Denton included? It's about Barton's mother."

Horatio looked at it. "Now this is noteworthy, isn't it? Perhaps a call to Mrs. Winifred Barton might be in order." He paused. "She seems to have some misgivings about her boy, Joe… Tell you what: Eric and Calleigh, I'd like you to pay a visit to the girl Barton roughed up..." He reached for her photo and turned it over. The name JENNA BRUNSWICK was printed on the back. "Calleigh, you're good with frightened females... you got this?"

"Yes sir," she said brightly.

Horatio pulled out his phone. "Francis," he said when the detective answered, "got a little errand I could use your assistance with. How'd you like to take a little trip to the Keyes and spend some time with a beautiful woman?" He grinned as he pulled the phone slightly away from his ear.

Eric and Calleigh exchanged amused glances. Frank's aversion to small prop planes was well known.

"Frank, Frank..." continued Horatio, "I need you to pay a visit to a Mrs. Faith Fosdick... I think there's a murky connection to what's going on with the Lopez case... yes, Frank, I did say 'murky,' but you're going to bring a little clarity to it for me – right?" He was silent, listening to Frank for several seconds.

"Look, pal, if I could, I'd go myself, but I have another player in this mess to pay a visit to... Thanks, Frank. I'm going to send you a copy of the particulars. Let me know your impressions of Mrs. Fosdick; I think you'll find her... _fascinating_."

Terminating the call, he looked into brown eyes filled with laughter. "Frank not a happy boy, hey?"

"Eric, that's putting it mildly. But I trust his instincts... and I need you here."

"You said you were going to pay someone a visit... who do you intend to see?" asked Calleigh.

Horatio stood up from the stool and slipped his phone into his pocket. "I think it's time to pay Catherine's ex a call," he said, his face grim. "I want to see this character who terrifies Catherine so. Maybe it will help me understand why she's so reticent to talk. But first, I want to see Catherine – and place a call to Barton's _mommy_."

After Horatio left, Calleigh turned to Eric, wearing a concerned look. "Hey, you... are you okay? You left the house this morning before I was awake."

He grinned. "Had your coffee brewing, though, didn't I?"

She smiled. Eric had converted her to his famous _Cubano_ coffee. "You did. Thank you."

"Yeah, well, I know what a bear you can be before you get that first cup of caffeine down."

"I'm not that bad…" she began.

"Wanna bet? Why do you think I made the coffee and ran?" His white teeth flashed against full red lips, and Calleigh wanted – suddenly and desperately – to kiss him. _Hard_.

But she didn't… not in the lab.

She raised her hand to his face, and fleetingly stroked his jaw, her eyes serious. "Really, honey, are you okay? When you weren't there this morning, I worried... you know, after last night..."

Eric's eyes softened at the tenderness in her own. "It's okay, Cal. I left early to see what Denton came up with. H was pretty antsy when I spoke with him yesterday – I wanted to get the information to him ASAP. That's all."

He hesitated a moment. "But I meant what I said last night. I want to marry you."

"And I meant what _I_ said," she replied softly, her voice even.

He nodded. "About proving myself. Listen to me, Calleigh: I'm dead serious about the two of us. We've got something good – and we've got what it takes to make it work."

Looking at him, Calleigh could see he was in earnest. "One step at a time, honey, okay?" She paused, her face suddenly sad. "I've made some… some missteps… I want to get it right this time. I don't want to get hurt again… I don't want _you_ hurt either."

Eric knew she was thinking of Hagan. _What an asshole,_ he thought, remembering how the guy had endangered Calleigh's life – and how he'd taken his own in the Ballistics Lab.

One night, Eric had fallen asleep with Calleigh in his arms, only to awaken with a start when she suddenly sat up, tears streaming down her face, her voice ragged with pain. _"John! No… oh no, John…"_

That was the first time Eric realized Calleigh meant more to him than a convenient romance. She wasn't just another girl; she was the _one_. Always so self-assured, so happy… it was a jolt to Eric to realize there was something sad and needy beneath the happy façade. It brought out something strong, protective in him… something mature and tender. Trying to calm her, he'd eased her back down into his arms, murmuring soothing words mixed with gentle caresses, and eventually she calmed down.

The next morning, he opened his eyes to find her sitting cross-legged before him, a cup of coffee held securely between her hands, her head tilted, studying him.

'_Hey, babe,' he said, adjusting the pillows behind him so he could look at her. 'What are you doing?' He reached out to smooth some wayward locks behind her shoulder, loving the look of her in one of his shirts._

_Her expression while gazing at him had been serious, but a look of genuine pleasure lightened her features at his touch. "Looking at the most gorgeous man in Miami… and he's laying right here, in my bed!"_

_He blushed, and then felt stupid. It wasn't as if he was a fifteen-year old virgin, but Calleigh had that effect on him. She caught him off guard, got beneath his cool exterior. It was disconcerting – and a little thrilling, too._

'_Look at you,' she crowed, laughter bubbling up. 'Are you blushing, Eric Delko?'_

_He cleared his throat. 'I am not.'_

'_Yes, you are. I can't believe it, Don Juan actually blushing because I said he was gorgeous. Like you don't know it._

'_Tell me, lover boy, how many women have told you just that thing?'_

_She was still smiling as she asked the question, but Eric suddenly sensed a vein of seriousness hidden within the teasing._

"_Don't be silly, Calleigh.'_

'_No, tell me… do they all tell you that you're beautiful?'_

_Her question made him uncomfortable and he wondered where this was leading. 'Calleigh, what's this about?'_

_She looked down at her coffee, a frown creasing her brow. Refusing to look at him, she murmured softly, 'Thank you for… for being there for me last night. I, um, well, usually once I have the dream, I'm unable to get back to sleep. Thank you for helping me through it...'_

_This time, she was the one blushing, and still she wouldn't meet his eyes._

'_Cal… do you have the dream often?'_

'_No… not often… only when I'm feeling happy. It's like… well, it's like I don't deserve to be happy, you know? I mean, John… well, he'll never get another chance to be happy.'_

'_Christ, Cal, that was his choice, not yours.'_

'_He loved me, Eric.'_

'_Yeah, in his twisted way.'_

_She said nothing, and he felt remorse. 'Look, babe, Hagan was a wacko. What he did, he did to himself. Thank God he didn't take you along for the ride! As for not deserving to be happy, why would you say that? That's guilt talking – and it's guilt you shouldn't be carrying.'_

_She looked at him then, her eyes a pair of shimmering emeralds in the rose-colored light of early morning. 'I'm happy with you, Eric… that's why the dream came.'_

_He reached for her coffee mug, placing it on the nightstand, and drew her into his arms, holding her tight. 'Stay happy with me, Cal… every time the dream comes, I'll be here. We'll fight it down together.'_

Thinking about Calleigh's question that morning about past lovers, he felt a quick pang. His reputation as a lothario was once a source of pride to him, and it had pleased him when the team bandied it about the Crime Lab. Even H often teasingly chided him about his newest 'flavor of the week.'

It hurt him to realize Calleigh's insecurity about him had its basis in his past behavior – foolish behavior that he'd taken a machismo pleasure in, believing it was a symbol of his Latin virility. Even now, he sometimes fell back into his flirtatious ways.

He knew he was a good-looking man, and attracting women had always been easy for him. Until Calleigh, most of the women he'd dated had been gorgeous bimbos; they had also been self-involved. That had been fine with him at the time. He hadn't been looking for anything serious. He enjoyed the chase, and he loved the sex. Most of all, he had liked the variety.

He had liked it all just fine - until he realized his feelings for Calleigh had changed.

First working colleagues, and then friends, his relationship with her had deepened over the years. In the beginning, she tended to treat him as a goofy younger brother, even though she was only a year or so older.

_Well, you didn't exactly act very mature, did you, Romeo? _he thought wryly.

From the start, though, he had liked her long, silky blond hair, the way it swayed back and forth against the small of her back. He liked the sparkle in her eyes, the sweet smile, her humor. He respected her abilities, and he knew enough not to bullshit her. She had seemed to take his measure – and if she found him wanting initially, she was always warm and willing to listen to his worries and enthusiasms.

There was a time when he thought there might be something going on between Calleigh and H. They had an easy way with each other, often flirtatious. He'd heard a few remarks Horatio had tossed her way, and wondered if perhaps they'd been sleeping together at the time. As it turned out, they hadn't. As Calleigh later confided, they were close friends, nothing more, but she also made it clear she'd walk through fire for him.

"There aren't many people I respect as much as Horatio. I'd do anything for him."

Perhaps it was wrong, but the remark nettled Eric, making him feel not a little _jealous. _Something of that must have shown on his face because Calleigh had suddenly laughed at him, and leaned forward to kiss him passionately.

"Eric, you and me… that's different from my friendship with Horatio. Okay?"

"Would you walk through fire for _me_?" he had asked, feeling childish but needing to hear the answer.

"_For _you and _with _you… you just need to hold out your hand." She then took his hand and raised it to her mouth, gently kissing the palm. "All you need to do is hold out your hand – and I'll always take it in mine."

Remembering all that, Eric looked at the woman standing before him, the woman he'd asked to marry him – the woman who told him he first had to prove himself.

"Cal," he said, "I'm holding out my hand to you… do you remember what you said?"

For a moment, she looked at him blankly. Slowly, she realized what he was referring to, and she smiled. She reached for his hand, holding it in both of hers.

With a serious note in his voice - one that Calleigh had never before heard - he said quietly, "Walk through the fire with me, Calleigh – not _for _me. _With _me. And I promise, I'll always walk through it with you.

_**To be continued...**_


	9. Chapter 9

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Nine - The Puzzle of Catherine

Parked outside Catherine's hotel, Horatio sat quietly for several minutes, lost in thought. Catherine believed Barton was still in San Francisco, and that created a dilemma for Horatio. Her reaction to Barton made him uneasy. While the story she'd shared with him was bad, Horatio couldn't escape the feeling that she was holding something back. He debated whether he should mention that Barton was now sitting in a jail cell in Miami.

Catherine worried him. She was on the edge. Her demeanor at dinner the night before concerned him. He didn't like the way she'd been looking at the wine bottle, as if it held the answer to her problems.

Annoyed by his indecision, he frowned. He'd always played it straight with people in danger. This was no time to change tactics. Catherine needed to know Barton wasn't in San Francisco.

It was time to stop babying her.

Making up his mind, Horatio exited the car and headed to the hotel's large revolving doors. As soon as he entered the lobby, his phone began to buzz. He found a chair in a quiet area between two large potted palms and sat down.

"Horatio Caine," he said, not recognizing the number.

"Lieutenant Caine, this is Warden Pennyworth. Had a message you called. What can I do for you?"

Now that he had the warden of the Miami-Dade Correctional Facility on the line, Horatio wasn't sure where to begin.

"Warden," he said slowly, "you have an inmate in your facility… Josiah Barton."

There was a pause on the other end. "Barton? Yes… I'm familiar with the name. What's your interest?"

"A girl was brutally murdered a few nights ago; I think he might have some connection to what happened."

"That's hard to believe, Lieutenant. We keep a close watch on Barton… he's an odd duck. He has few visitors. I don't see how he could be involved."

"He's just a person of interest at this point. I only want to ask him a few questions." _And get a look at this guy Catherine's so frightened of_, he thought.

"I run a tight ship, Lieutenant… I know what goes on inside this place. Barton's one of the guys we keep on a short leash. I like to keep things easy here, keep to a routine. Prevents things from getting out of hand. You come in here, asking questions, you may cause a situation we don't need. I don't see how questioning Barton is going to help you."

Horatio said nothing, waiting the man out.

After a moment, the warden sighed. "Well, I can't prevent you from visiting him. Very well. One caveat, Lieutenant. I want his guard present. There's something about Barton…"

Horatio sat up slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You know he comes from money, right?"

"I'd heard."

"Well, you can't but help wonder how a guy like that ends up here. Smooth, educated, all the advantages. Before I met him, I assumed it was issues with anger management."

"And now?"

The warden hesitated. "He has this way of looking at you… through you. It's eerie. Look, I think you better draw your own conclusions. When you get here, ask for Jack Tolliver. He's a capable man, keeps order. Just the sort to deal with Barton. I'll want him in the room with you at all times."

"Warden, is that really necessary? Can't the guard wait outside? Having Tolliver in the room might prevent Barton from talking."

"This is not negotiable, Lieutenant. I can't explain it to you, but I want Tolliver inside the room."

_Well, this is damned odd_, thought Horatio. "Alright, sir. I'll plan to come this afternoon. Is that acceptable?"

"Fine. Remember – _ask for Tolliver_."

Horatio slipped the phone into his pocket and stood up. The conversation had made him uneasy.

He suspected that what the Warden hadn't said was at least as important as what he had.

Nodding to the police guard stationed outside Catherine's hotel door, he rapped sharply several times, prepared to call out his identity in the event she was too frightened to open the door.

Instead, the door swept open, and the sight that greeted him caused his eyes to widen with surprise.

Instead of the plain dressed woman he'd left the night before, he found himself looking straight into the eyes of a stunning beauty. For a moment, he couldn't speak, and Catherine enjoyed his discomfiture. Her deep blue eyes sparkled, and she reached for his hand, quickly drawing him inside the room.

"Lieutenant," she said, smiling.

"Catherine..." His eyes swept her from head to toe, taking in her much improved appearance. A low, appreciative whistle escaped him. "You look..."

"_Okay_?" There was an inviting and teasing lilt in her voice.

"More than okay," he said swiftly. "You look beautiful."

And she did: her shiny, short black hair curled in gentle waves around her face, drawing attention to her eyes and elegant cheekbones. On her lips was a pale, rose-colored lip-gloss, and Horatio wondered briefly if the gloss was flavored.

Instead of the serviceable navy blue dresses and plain shoes she been wearing since he'd met her, she was now dressed in a short pink skirt, stiletto heels in the same shade, and a sky blue sweater. The sweater particularly caught his attention. The neckline stopped short of showing any cleavage, but the soft fabric hugged her curves in a way Horatio found pleasantly distracting.

"You seem surprised," she said, grinning.

"That you're lovely? Not at all, but I _am _surprised at the swan-like metamorphosis. Mind if I ask, what gives? Last night when I left, you seemed on the edge of losing control. I was worried about you."

"I'm sorry you were worried," she said softly, noting the creases in his forehead. With a gentle touch, she lightly trailed her fingers across them, trying to smooth away the careworn lines. "But it's nice to know you're concerned about my well-being."

"Never doubt it," he said, enjoying the soft caress.

She allowed her hand to fall to her side and turned away, smiling at Horatio from over her shoulder. Sitting down in one of the suite's overstuffed chairs, she slowly crossed one leg over the other, affording him a generous view of long limbs.

He raised his brows slightly, and shook his head, perplexed. This was a side of Catherine he hadn't before seen. "C'mon, Catherine, why the change in mood and, um, apparel?"

He walked over to the large coffee table across from her chair and sat down on its edge. Leaning forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, he stared at her, unsure what to think.

She laughed softly. "It's no big mystery. Do you think I always wear plain clothes? I often have meetings with corporations and philanthropists to keep the funding alive for the Kitchen. It's important to dress up for those occasions. But while working in the church, I stick to plainer clothing. It makes more sense."

She leaned back into the cushions and yawned slightly. "I'm feeling much more relaxed this morning."

_I'll say_, he thought, continuing to study her. Something wasn't quite right. She was _too_ relaxed. "So… no more worries about your ex-husband?"

"Oh, I'm still worried," she replied, and for a moment, Horatio saw a frisson of fear cross her eyes. Perversely, it reassured him. He didn't want her too relaxed. It also made this new Catherine slightly more recognizable to him.

"I'm worried, but I'm tired of being frightened, of looking over my shoulder. He's miles away on the West Coast. He can't hurt me from California."

Horatio frowned. How was he going to tell her that Barton was in Miami? Incarcerated – true. Even so, he was in a cell less than 50 miles from where they sat.

"Catherine, I read Joe's police report today. You weren't quite honest with me."

"What do you mean?"

"You told me your husband was in prison for murder. I read the police report today - that's not totally correct."

Horatio watched as she shifted in the chair, obviously uncomfortable. "There was a girl..."

"Yes, there was... Tessa Bainbridge." Catherine sounded sad.

"According to the report, he beat her badly."

She nodded, her eyes dark at the memory. "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Did you know her? It happened in the garage of your apartment building."

"No... lots of people lived in the building. It wasn't until after it happened that I became aware of her."

"Were you still living with Joe?"

"No, I'd made a run for it several days before it happened."

"A _run_ for it_? _You ran away?"

Catherine bit her lip, annoyed with her poor choice of words. "I mean I moved out."

"That's not what you said. You said you made a run for it."

She looked away. "It was a long time ago; is this necessary?"

Horatio felt his temper stir in spite of his efforts to control it. _Why wouldn't she talk to him? _

"Catherine, if it weren't necessary, do you think I'd ask?" he said, his voice sharp. "I need to understand what sort of man Joe is. We've had a murder which involved the removal of a girl's heart. Then there was that DVD - and guess what? Our lab confirmed the noise in the background - _remember that_? Our medical guy said it was the sound of a surgical saw making contact with bone. No wonder the person on that DVD was screaming. And the song lyrics - 'I left my Heart in San Francisco' - what does that mean? Is that Joe's calling card to you? Christ, Catherine, if it's a calling card, who knows when he'll strike again to grab your attention. Who will be the next victim? Will it be _you_?"

Frustrated, he dragged a hand through his hair. "We're up against the clock; I don't know who he has working with him on the outside, but we need to figure it out. He's pulling the goddam strings from his cell in Miami!"

Catherine sat up abruptly. "What? Joe's not in Miami… he's in California."

He hadn't meant for the news to come out this way but since it had, he decided to make use of her fear to get some information. "No, he's _here_ - in Miami."

"But that can't be," she whispered, looking away from him. "The family would have told me! They made the charges go away - but the price for doing so was Joe's admission to a psychiatric hospital. At least that is what they told me. I'd have been alerted if he'd been released, if he were in the Miami area!" Her eyes met his. "His mother was especially determined he'd get treatment. Even she realized something wasn't right with him. She would have told me! Are you sure about this?"

"Very sure. I'm going to go talk to him this afternoon." He watched for her reaction.

"How... why is he in jail?"

"He tried to strangle a girl in a nightclub. The Alahambra... ever hear of it? Ever go there?"

"Do I seem the night club type?" she asked, suddenly angry and on edge. The news about Joe's presence in Miami had unnerved her. "You see what I do for a living... do you think I have time for clubs?"

"No," he conceded. _But how much do I really know about you? _he wondered.

He reached for her hand, which was suddenly cool to the touch. "Look, here's what worries me... I'm going to be honest with you because it's important. The two women your ex-husband brutalized... each bore a strong resemblance to you."

She just stared at him. "What do you mean?" she whispered.

"I mean that it's possible he chose his victims because they resembled you. Anger, obsession, twisted love - who knows what's going through his head. Even Theresa Lopez was a younger version of you - dark hair, prominent cheekbones, tall and slim. I'm worried how long he is going to be content with substitutes... I'm also worried that the violence has escalated. He's crossed the line from brutality to murder. And he's recruited someone to carry out his designs.

"Have you noticed anyone following you in the past several weeks? Anyone who gave you a feeling of uncertainty, wariness?"

"No, no one."

She stood up abruptly. "I need to step into the bedroom for a minute," she said, walking swiftly into the room and closing the door, leaving Horatio startled by her abrupt departure.

Once inside the room, Catherine's eyes went to the nightstand near the bed. A bottle of vodka sat there, a fair amount of it missing.

After dinner last night, Horatio had taken her back to the room. He had exchanged a few words with the police guard stationed outside and then unlocked her door. He asked her to stay in the hall as he swiftly went inside and looked around. Finally, he called out that everything was clear and she went in. It had shaken her that Horatio felt it necessary to check the room in spite of the presence of the guard. After he'd left, she'd called room service and ordered the vodka.

It had been a long time since she'd had to drink to remain calm. During the last weeks of her marriage to Joe, she was relying on vodka and other measures to maintain her equilibrium. Once she'd left California (_and Joe_), she was able to put the alcohol behind her. But the DVD had upset her – as had the look Horatio had given her during dinner. He seemed unsure of her, and she wondered if he believed her caught up in some dark fantasy. It had disconcerted her, the fact the little bit she had shared with him seemed to make him question her sanity.

Catherine reached for the tumbler on the nightstand and poured a few fingers of the vodka in. She didn't think he'd detect it on her breath – and God knows she needed a drink!

She carried the glass into the bathroom and began running the water in an attempt to buy some time before confronting Horatio again. She reached for the bottle of pills that sat on the counter. Flipping off the lid, she hesitated as she studied the small pink pill. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, and was slightly reassured.

Before Horatio had arrived, she had a few drinks and one of the little pills. They had loosened her up, and she was able, at least temporarily, to cast aside thoughts and fears about Joe. Instead, fully relaxed, she thought about Horatio. She was attracted to him. She liked his looks, his long lean body, the bright hair and vivid eyes.

But it was his kindness that really drew her. It had been under the influence of the drug and drinks that she'd found the courage to dress up a little. It had been her intention to provoke a reaction from him; it was gratifying to her that she had.

But now, the flirtation had passed. _Joe was in Miami!_

No! It couldn't be!

_Could it?_

She swallowed the pill with the vodka, took a deep breath, and joined Horatio in the living room.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "Just shook up – hearing Joe is in Miami – it's upsetting. And those girls… do they _really_ look like me?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, his voice kind. "I'm afraid they do. Tell me about the last weeks of your marriage, Catherine."

She hesitated, and then sank back into the easy chair. "I've tried so hard to forget them, and now you want me to remember."

He said nothing, watching her.

Catherine closed her eyes briefly, allowing the pill and drink to work their magic.

"Okay," she said softly. "Joe was so taken with the Fosdicks. They made quite a fuss over him. They were always throwing parties at which we were the guests of honor. Emerson was particularly solicitous of Joe, introducing him to all his friends. And the friends started treating Joe like he was a god. In the early months, I laughed about it, telling him he better watch out that he didn't begin to believe he walked on water. In the beginning, he laughed as well. But as he grew more attached to them, I think he began to believe that he was as special as they did. But largely, it was Faith's doing. She had such influence over him…"

"How so?"

Catherine's laughter was sad. "She was so… seductive. She and Emerson were glamorous, the way the movie stars of a different era were. During those parties in our honor, Faith always managed to get Joe alone with her on some pretext or another. Soon, it was Joe trying to get _her _alone. She would sit on the edge of his chair during parties, coiling herself around him."

Horatio's gaze sharpened. "That's an odd word for you to use… coiling."

She nodded. "That's how it looked to me. She was very… sinuous in her movements. You had to see it to understand. It frightened me. _She _frightened me."

"Did she ever threaten you?"

"Not in so many words; her eyes… they were odd. Watchful." She paused, trying to put her thoughts into words. "When her eyes would settle on me, I felt as if something very old and primitive was staring at me. She never seemed to blink; those eyes would fix on me, never moving. It was creepy and scary."

"And Joe saw none of this?"

"He did – at first. When we first met Emerson and Faith, Joe seemed drawn to Emerson. Emerson was initially warm and colorful, a grand teller of stories. Joe thought Faith was as odd as I did. But things changed. _Joe changed…_"

"Was there a specific moment when you noticed the change?"

Catherine leaned her head back, suddenly feeling languid. She was beginning to feel sleepy. Perhaps too much vodka. She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on Horatio's question. The drug and alcohol had taken the edge off her fear, and it was easier to talk about things, easier to look at them again. She'd forgotten how easily alcohol could separate one from her problems.

"Catherine?" Horatio's voice was sharp, interrupting her thoughts.

Opening her eyes, she looked at him. "What?"

"I asked if you can recall when Joe changed – was there a trigger?"

"It was the drugs. Emerson's parties were replete with them… there were cut crystal bowls on tables throughout the house filled with multicolored pills, all for the enjoyment of his guests. At first, Emerson didn't force the drugs on Joe or me. But that changed, and Emerson laughingly chided Joe for being a puritan. Joe grew increasingly captivated with Emerson, almost worshipful… after a while, he agreed with Emerson's view on the drugs. He told me it was just recreational use… like having a glass of wine. And once Joe was taking the drugs, he wanted me to join in."

"Did you?"

"I did… reluctantly… I loved Joe, and I felt him beginning to slip away from me. I would watch him take pills and go on these, well, flights of fancy, I guess, you'd call them. It was the three of them – Emerson, Joe and Faith. Emerson and Faith began to mock me – and Joe soon joined them. They were after me to take the drugs. Eventually I did. And that's when the real fun and games began..."

To be continued.


	10. Chapter 10

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Ten- Jenna's Story

Jenna Brunswick tucked a wavy lock of her short black hair behind her ear. The slight tremor in her hand hinted at the nervousness she felt as she faced the two CSIs who sat in her kitchen.

"Cream or sugar?" she asked, watching Calleigh pick up the mug of steaming coffee she had poured for each.

"No ma'am," said Eric, smiling. "We like coffee black – and strong. This is really good."

Jenna could see they were trying to set her at ease with their friendly manner. They were certainly a lot different from the investigators she had dealt with almost a year ago. They'd been cool and clinical, not sympathetic at all. In fact, they'd grown impatient with her.

When the two CSIs called her earlier today and asked to see her about what had happened when that creature Barton had attacked her, she'd almost said no. It was only her fear that they could make her talk to them that had convinced her to see them.

She sometimes wondered if she'd ever be able to put the attack behind her. She still had nightmares about the confrontation, remembering the silky timbre of Barton's voice, a voice that later changed into something horrifying and chilling. His earlier charm evaporated as he first caressed and then began squeezing her throat… squeezing until she couldn't breathe and she began to struggle with him. Never before in her life had she been so frightened. Gasping for breath, she looked at his face and went cold at the smile she saw there. It was clear he was enjoying her terror.

Even now she'd awaken from a dead sleep, feeling the pressure of his fingers against her throat, hearing his voice, feeling his eyes on her – even now in the safe darkness of her bedroom.

Calleigh took a sip of her coffee as she regarded Jenna. Finally she set the mug down and smiled. "Jenna, we're very grateful you agreed to see us. I know this must be very difficult for you," she said softly.

Jenna nodded at the pair. "I would love to forget it ever happened."

"But you can't, can you?" asked Eric.

"No, I can't. I have dreams. Dreams that leave me drenched in sweat and shaking. My doctor says it's a form of post-traumatic stress. I, um, take medication for it… anti-anxiety meds. Most of the time they work… until he starts calling out to me."

Eric frowned. "Calling out to you? I don't understand…"

Again the nervous girl fiddled with her hair, twisting it around her finger, tucking it behind her ear. "Sometimes, at night, I'll wake up and feel his breath against my face, the pressure of his hands… and I'll hear him whispering to me."

"He whispers your name?" asked Calleigh.

"Not _my _name; someone else_'s_. _Catherine_. During the actual attack, he kept calling me _Catherine_." The girl shivered.

Calleigh and Eric exchanged a glance.

"Jenna, would you tell us about the attack, please?"

The girl took a deep breath and nodded at Calleigh. She liked the woman who sat across from her; she was easy to talk to, warm… sympathetic. "I'd gone to work that night at the Alahambra Club. I was serving drinks at the bar when he walked in."

"Barton?" asked Eric.

"Yes, him. At first, I thought he was very nice. He was charming, attractive. He had an old-fashioned way with me, respectful – nothing like the wolves I come in contact with all the time. He told me I reminded him of his former wife; said that I looked like her. He also said he was a widower, that she'd died in an automobile accident, and that he had loved her very much. I felt sorry for him as I listened to him. He was so nice. He stayed at the bar for an hour, talking to me, reminiscing about his wife.

"Things got busy, and I lost track of him. When I finally got a free moment, he was gone – but he'd left a $100 tip under his glass for me! I'm used to a rich clientele, but some of the stingiest people I know are wealthy. I was very grateful for the tip and sorry I hadn't had the chance to thank him and say goodnight.

"I was such an idiot! But he seemed so friendly... How could I know what was to come? There were no signs to pick up on." She began to tear up. "How could I know?"

"You couldn't," Calleigh said quietly, reaching across the table and placing her hand atop Jenna's. "Don't beat yourself up – terrible things happen to good people all the time."

Jenna nodded. "Thank you. You're very kind. The other police officers… they made me feel as if I were responsible for the attack, that I'd been sloppy, stupid…"

Eric's lips thinned as he listened to Jenna. He knew the kind of cops she meant, and his thoughts flickered briefly on Rick Stetler, whose cynicism made him view his fellow officers with a jaundiced eye.

"Okay, Jenna," continued Calleigh, "Barton left the bar. You saw him later in the evening, though…"

"Yes… I was getting off my shift at the Alahambra and headed out to my car. It was after midnight, and I had a short walk to the lot where my car was parked."

"You didn't park on the Alahambra lot?" Eric seemed surprised.

"Oh no… that was reserved for the club's guests. I parked about a block away."

"You were by yourself when you left the club?" asked Calleigh.

"Yes. It was no big deal. The club is located in a nice part of Miami. There had never been any problems before." She looked sad. "Until me…"

"Tell us what happened."

Jenna again began fiddling with her hair and her large, vivid eyes darted around the room, as if she feared someone might be listening. "I was walking to the car and I felt someone falling into step behind me. I felt danger suddenly, and I whirled around – but it was only him… my _friend _from the bar. It sounds ludicrous now, but I was so relieved to see him! I had imagined some sort of monster was trailing me.

"Little did I know I was right…"

She rose from the table and began pacing about the small kitchen. "We both laughed at how I had jumped in fright when I saw him. It seemed so silly… He seemed so unthreatening. He admitted he'd been waiting for me to leave the club, saying he felt drawn to me because I reminded him so much of his wife. That touched me. He offered to walk with me to my car. I remember him saying, 'You're too pretty to be out here walking alone. You're just like she was… too trusting.' He made me feel important, that I was someone he valued. I was flattered. So together we walked to my car."

"What happened next?" asked Calleigh.

"The lot was empty except for the two of us. I pointed out my car to him and he took my keys. He was so gallant – taking my keys, unlocking the door. He reached for my hand – kissed it! No one had ever kissed my hand before. I felt like I was a princess or something."

She stopped pacing and looked at the two CSIs, a puzzled look on her face. "I was about to get into my car when he placed a hand on my shoulder. It wasn't a threatening gesture – it just seemed as if he wanted me to turn around so he could say goodnight. But when I turned to face him, an odd look appeared on his face. This sounds absurd, but he looked like someone else… _something _else. In that second, the word 'monster' came back to me, and I wanted suddenly to jump into my car, but I couldn't. His eyes held me. He leaned close to my ear – and I'll never forget the tone of his voice. It was horrific!"

"What do you mean?" asked Eric.

"His voice sounded like… like a collection of voices, all mixed up, all vying with each other for dominance. It made me think of – well, of what a pit of hissing snakes might sound like. It was terrible to hear!"

Calleigh didn't know what to make of the girl's words, but she felt her flesh crawl as Jenna's imagery of hissing reptiles bloomed in her brain.

"Jenna," continued Eric, "do you remember what he said to you?"

"Remember it? I'll never forget it! The words haunt my dreams! He said, 'Dearest, you thought you'd gotten away, didn't you? You belong to me, Catherine. I'll _always_ find you. Your heart belongs to me… and _such_ a big heart it is.' And that is when he placed his hands around my throat and began to squeeze… tighter and tighter. Panicked, I tried to fight him, but he was so strong! My vision began to fade to a small pinpoint of light, and the pain of not being able to breathe was intense. After a few seconds, panic began to fade and I felt resigned to my fate. It was odd… that terrible acceptance. I looked into his eyes and knew that it was over. I believe I was dying… it felt that way."

Jenna stopped speaking suddenly, surprised to find tears had escaped her eyes. She wiped them away with trembling fingers. Calleigh and Eric waited, knowing she'd continue once she mastered herself. Finally she did.

"I must have passed out… when I came to, there were several people standing over me, helping me. I was being loaded into an ambulance, and I couldn't stop coughing in spite of the plastic air cup that the paramedic had placed over my nose and mouth."

Jenna's face puckered, and she fought to maintain her composure.

"After I was released from the hospital, the cops came to see me, and then began the endless questions. I was lucky… while he was trying to kill me, a couple spotted us from the other side of the lot, and while they couldn't see exactly what was happening, they figured out it was something bad. They phoned 911 – and the cops came before he could finish the job. He got away – until they picked him up the next day."

"On your description?"

"Yes… I had to go in and pick him out of a police lineup. It was terrible. The cops assured me the men in the lineup couldn't see me." She shivered. "But… I think he could. He was looking straight at me. I know he saw me in spite of the mirrored glass."

Calleigh and Eric exchanged glances. It seemed unlikely that Barton would have seen her; Eric was certain that Jenna's fear made her think he did.

"According to the court records, you testified against him – and that's what got him put away," said Calleigh.

Troubled, Jenna hesitated before replying. "That's true. I… well, I didn't want to testify, but I had no choice. The entire time I was on the stand, he sat there at the table with his lawyer, staring at me. _Smiling_. He smiled as if he knew a secret. It made my skin crawl. I hope to God I never see him again!"

Jenna sat down, facing the two CSIs. "He's an evil man. All charm on the outside, but something dark and twisted within. You don't notice it at first. Handsome, refined… elegant manners. He fools you, draws you in. But it's a mask for the violence. Until the point where he tried to choke me, I thought he was quite a catch, and I felt special that he sought me out.

"Now I feel stupid and frightened. He saw me as prey, and I didn't realize it until his hands were around my throat. He's worse than any horror story I ever read as a kid. Who knew that truth could be stranger than fiction? You would have to hear his voice to understand… or _voices_. So odd… so creepy."

"That's the second time you've referred to 'voices' – you think you heard him speaking with more than one voice?" asked Eric.

"Not at first – but later, during the attack, I had the definite impression there was more than one voice. Do you remember those old songs from the sixties, the ones in which an artist would have his voice overdubbed so that he could harmonize with himself?"

"Oh, I know what you're talking about," replied Calleigh. "My mom had a collection of Connie Francis albums; she often used that technique to record tracks of her voice singing in harmony with herself."

"Right," said Jenna. "Thinking back on Barton's voice, it's similar to that… it was his voice, but it seemed overdubbed, somehow… many voices, but none in harmony. Total dissonance. You'd have to hear it to understand. It was beyond creepy.

"I never, ever want to hear it again," she said, her voice definite. She looked at the CSIs' mugs of coffee and nodded. "You finished with those?"

Calleigh and Eric got the message. Jenna told them everything she could, and now she wanted them to leave.

"Jenna, you've been great," said Calleigh, smiling. She handed a card to the young woman. "If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to give me a call. We're grateful for your time."

Jenna just nodded and looked away.

* * *

><p>"What do you think?" asked Calleigh once she and Eric were outside Jenna's building.<p>

Eric ran a hand through his dark hair. "I don't know. Her story made sense; _she_ made sense, until she began all that hysterical talk about Barton's voice."

"You don't believe her?"

"You do?" Eric looked surprised. "Multiple voices coming out of one guy? What is this, 'The Exorcist?' No, I think her fear has made her imagine a combination of voices. She's still traumatized."

Calleigh wondered. Jenna hadn't seemed hysterical to her. She was frightened, but her story hung together. While Calleigh couldn't reconcile the bit about the voices with her logical mind, she'd read of cases where people saw and experienced strange things while under the influence of a stronger personality. Maybe Jenna found Barton's personality so overwhelming that she thought she'd heard multiple voices.

"I'll tell you something I do think," said Eric, pulling Calleigh's thoughts back to him. "Horatio isn't going to take it well when we share that tidbit about Barton calling Jenna _Catherine_."

Calleigh took a deep breath. Eric was right.

Horatio wasn't going to like that at all.

**_To be continued._**


	11. Chapter 11

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Eleven - Why Emotions and Logic Don't Mix

Catherine's last words made Horatio feel ill at ease. Having already witnessed how cold and brutal Josiah Barton could be, whatever Catherine had meant by 'fun and games', Horatio had little doubt that the explanation would be chilling.

Watching Catherine as she slumped back on the couch, he was overcome by a desire to want to take her in his arms and hold her close, to protect her from a past that she would rather have stayed hidden. Was he being cruel to force her to relive such painful memories?

He didn't have a choice. Josiah Barton was behind the murder of Theresa Lopez – he was sure of it. Neither could he deny the similarities in appearance between Catherine, Theresa and the woman Barton had attacked before he'd been sent to prison.

Catherine was Barton's target, that much was clear already. She was vulnerable and he'd never been able to ignore his own gut instinct when it came to victims. Was it Catherine's sense of vulnerability that made him want to reach out and touch her hair, to tuck it behind her ear and take her face in his hands?

Was it Barton or his own growing attraction to Catherine making him feel on edge? Either way, it must have shown in his posture as Catherine sat up straighter, looking at him questioningly.

"Lieutenant, is everything ok?"

It took Horatio a few moments to react to the question. "I'm good, but how about calling me Horatio, hmm?"

"I'd like that," Catherine smiled in response. "Horatio is a strong name, I like it."

Horatio gave her a bashful smile. "Not the best name to have when you're a kid though."

Looking him up and down, Catherine smiled appreciatively at what she saw. "It suits you – strong, masculine, reliable…"

The way Catherine was looking at him began to generate a primal response from Horatio's loins as he felt his groin tighten painfully, and he tried hiding his reaction by crossing his legs and clearing his throat. The Catherine who'd open her hotel door to him today was completely different from the dowdy-looking woman he'd come across at the church. Even in her plain clothing he'd found her attractive, but dressed as she was now, he found her even more alluring.

"Tell me more about your time with the Fosdicks," Horatio prompted, his heart sinking at seeing Catherine's sudden change in demeanor.

"I'd really rather not. It was a long time ago, does it really matter?"

As much as he found himself attracted to her, Horatio was becoming increasingly frustrated at her reluctance to speak of her ex-husband and the people who seemed to have had such a hold over him.

The discomfort in his groin easing, Horatio leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Catherine, from what you've told me, Josiah Barton went from being a kind and gentle man to a cold and calculated monster…almost overnight. You said yourself that the changes in him coincided with his association with the Fosdicks. It doesn't take a cop to work out that the two are related. I can't protect you from what I can't see, Catherine."

His last comment pricked at her vanity. "I never asked for your protection, lieutenant!"

Horatio closed his eyes, trying to keep his temper in check. "It's my job to protect people. It's what I do."

"So I'm just a job to you, nothing more?"

The words were out of her mouth before Catherine could stop them, causing Horatio's eyes to widen in surprise for mere moments before he covered his reaction with another plea for Catherine to open up and tell him about her experiences with the Fosdicks.

"Tell me what happened, Catherine. Tell me what happened to make Josiah change."

Shocked by her own lack of control, Catherine found herself thrown back to the time that she'd spent with Faith and Emerson Fosdick.

"Joe and I had been able to decline the drugs for a short while, but as Faith began to have an increasing hold on Joe, the pressure to take them grew on us. At first, the others would tease us, but then their comments started to become more….sinister."

"Sinister? How so?"

"At first it was the odd comment here and there… then things became more heated… people started to get physical… as if they were forcing their will upon us. Faith had Joe under some sort of spell and soon he was doing whatever she told him. He took the pills before I did, and then he…"

"What did he do, Catherine?" Horatio reached forward, taking her hands in his own as she avoided his gaze. "Sweetheart, I need you to tell me what happened next."

It took time, but Catherine finally refocused her gaze onto Horatio as if she were coming out of a trance. "Joe..." she began before stopping suddenly. "Faith had a hold over him, it didn't take her long to convince him to try one of those little pills. He tried to get me to take one with him, but I wouldn't. I just watched as he took one for the first time…"

"Is that what made him change, Catherine? Did he become addicted to the drugs the Fosdicks were giving him?"

Catherine shook her head, realizing that Horatio still didn't understand what had happened when Joe had met the Fosdicks. "I watched as the drugs took affect... I watched his eyes lose their focus. He was under Faith's influence, he did anything she asked… nothing was off limits when those drugs came out. Joe started pressuring me to take them and when I refused he became cruel and condescending toward me, calling me a coward for not wanting to have a little fun. Nothing about what happened at the Fosdicks was fun, Horatio."

Seeing the tears forming in Catherine's eyes, Horatio felt a pang of guilt as one escaped and rolled down her cheek. Moving slowly so as to not startle her, he reached up and brushed the tear away with his thumb. "Catherine, I know you don't want to rake up painful memories, but I need you to tell me what happened at these parties that you and Joe went to."

It took all of her energy to recall the images of a past that she'd been running away from for years now. Taking a deep breath, Catherine raised her eyes to meet Horatio's. "The Fosdicks were cruel… Faith in particular."

"How so?" Horatio questioned, returning to the couch opposite Catherine, allowing her some personal space while she recounted her nightmares.

"Faith had a thing about snakes…"

"What sort of thing? An obsession?"

Catherine shook her head. "No, it was more than that. Yes, she had some of those creatures that she kept as pets, but there was something so… malignant about her. It was almost as if she was as cold-blooded as those creatures she kept."

"Did you witness her breaking the law?" Horatio prompted, hoping that Catherine could give him an angle Frank could then work with when he visited Faith.

"Human laws?" Catherine asked before answering her own question. "Not as such, she certainly never killed anyone if that's what you're thinking. Moral laws?" Catherine laughed humorlessly. "She broke pretty much every one of those."

Catherine studied Horatio, noting the creases and care lines marring his handsome face. Although still an attractive man, she could only imagine how handsome he must have been in his younger years. "You remember the cats in my office?"

Horatio nodded, saying nothing, allowing Catherine to continue at her own pace.

"I found them abandoned not far from the church. It had been raining heavily all day and some heartless fiend had left a cat and her new-born kittens to fend for themselves on the streets. The area I work isn't known for its hospitality, Horatio."

"I'm well aware of that," Horatio responded, attempting to keep his tone neutral. After all, he'd been the one to lecture Catherine on not leaving the church on her own after dark.

"Those cats were defenseless… vulnerable. They deserved better than to be found by someone who wouldn't care for them… someone who would be cruel."

"Was Faith cruel? Is that why you took those kittens in?"

Catherine shook her head. "They reminded me. When I saw those tiny kittens, I remembered how I'd stood back and did nothing as the Fosdicks delighted their guests with such a barbaric display of cruelty."

Despite the color draining from Catherine's face, Horatio knew he had to keep pressing her. "What happened, Catherine?"

"It was a few months after Joe had started taking the pills, he'd finally worn me down enough to get me to take one. It was that night, when everyone was suitably relaxed, that Faith decided to show us one of her prized possessions: her Burmese python."

"But they're illegal," Horatio countered. "And huge. How the hell did she manage to get her hands on one of those?"

Catherine let out a small huff, picking at the stitching on her skirt. "I have no idea, but what Faith wants… Faith usually gets."

Judging by what Catherine had already told him, Horatio had little doubt that Faith Fosdick was a woman with great influence over the people around her, yet Catherine made it sound as if there were something almost supernatural about the woman. How much of Catherine's recall was borne of hysteria and how much was really fact?

"The snake stunned all of us into silence. Some recoiled in fear as Faith allowed the vile creature to slither around the room, she took great delight in telling us that it wasn't even fully grown yet. There were times when I thought Faith cared more about that snake than she did her own husband."

"What makes you say that? From what you've told me so far, the Fosdicks were equally complicit in their malevolent games."

"There was something not quite right about Emerson. It was almost as if Faith had him under her control. Whatever she asked, he did without question. He never once said a cross word or contradicted anything Faith said. It was like she had him under some sort of spell."

Try as he might, Horatio couldn't quite hide the dubiousness from his expression.

"I know what you're thinking, Horatio. You think that I'm some kind of hysterical woman who has imagined all of this, but I can assure you I'm not. If you ever come across Faith Fosdick you'll know what I mean."

Horatio felt pain in the pit of his stomach, realizing that he'd sent Frank to visit Faith Fosdick without knowing the full facts. With Frank going in there blind, there was a potential for major fallout. Frank was a grouch at the best of times and not only had Horatio sent him to the Keyes, he'd subjected him to a woman who it was becoming increasingly obvious had a strange and compelling hold over the people she came in contact with. Frank would most definitely not be a happy camper when he returned from the visit.

Distancing his thoughts from how pissed Frank would be with him, Horatio directed his questioning back toward the night that Catherine had been explaining. "What happened that evening, Catherine…the evening with the snake?"

Catherine blanched again, her face losing all color, the whites of her knuckles showing as she clenched her hands into fists. "After Faith had let everyone have a good look at the snake, she brought something over from the corner of the room. I'd heard faint noises earlier but I couldn't work out what was making them. It was a crate of kittens, they couldn't have been more than a few weeks old, Horatio. She instructed us to stand back as she opened the crate. Those kittens didn't stand a chance."

Horatio swallowed thickly, trying to rid his mind of the image of defenseless creatures being slaughtered for nothing more than entertainment. "It didn't try to attack anyone?"

"Those kittens were just as real as we were, Horatio!" Catherine shouted, feeling an uncontrollable need to defend those kittens – even when no one else had – including her. "It was like Faith had that snake under her control…after it had finished with the kittens, it recoiled, ready to strike…and then it just looked at her, like it was waiting for Faith to tell it what to do next."

"Some of us gasped in shock," Catherine continued. "But Joe….Joe just laughed. How could someone find something so barbaric funny?" Catherine asked herself. "Joe and Faith were staring at each other…laughing as those kittens squealed in the throes of death."

It was obvious now that Catherine had taken the kittens in at the church as some sort of penance for what she'd witnessed at the Fosdicks. Was she still blaming herself for allowing such things to happen?

Horatio told himself that Catherine was as vulnerable as those kittens had been. Too trusting of the man she loved as Faith Fosdick tried to lead both of them down a dark path toward depravity. Catherine had initially given off an air of being weak and needy, yet it must have taken inordinate courage to break away from not only the Fosdicks, but also the man she loved.

From what Catherine had told him about Faith Fosdick, and what he'd already learned about her ex-husband Josiah, it was becoming clear that, although Catherine had escaped from their influence, neither of them were the kind of people who would tolerate such behavior from her. The murder of Theresa Lopez was a message from Josiah, one which made it very clear that he would not stop until he'd taken Catherine back under his control.

Catherine took his silence as an indication of his low opinion of her - it was enough to cause her to react angrily. "You think I'm some kind of weak-willed woman who brought this on herself, don't you?"

The level of anger in Catherine's voice took Horatio by surprise. "Catherine, I – "

Catherine shot to her feet, storming toward the bathroom once more. "You think I'm making more out of this than there really is. I should have known….I should have known not to trust you."

There wasn't even time to answer in his own defense before Catherine slammed the bathroom door shut behind her, the sound of the lock being engaged ringing in Horatio's ears.

Safe in the confines of the bathroom, Catherine allowed the tears to fall from her eyes, watching in dazed fascination as her hands shook as they gripped the sides of the sink. Looking in the mirror, the voice in her head commanded her to take another one of those pills. Today had been arduous and she'd been forced to relive things she'd rather forget. She just needed another one of those pills to take the edge off…

"Catherine, I'm not sure what you think, but I can promise you that I don't think you're any of those things." The tenderness in Horatio's voice was almost enough to convince Catherine that his words were genuine, yet she'd been betrayed too many times to be so easily fooled.

That smoky voice was almost hypnotic. With only his voice, Horatio was able to reach something deep within her, yet her instant reaction had been to shut him out and retaliate with anger. That was how it had started with Joe, he'd gotten inside her and taken control, she wouldn't – no, she couldn't – let that happen again.

"Open the door, sweetheart. Let's talk about this."

His voice, it was threatening to undo her again. _Just a little longer. Let the pill kick in. _She repeated the mantra in her head until she could feel the sense of calm wash over her once more. It was enough to make her feel stronger, to display a sense of confidence that she didn't actually feel.

Checking her appearance in the mirror one last time, Catherine fixed her hair and expression, opening the door. "I'm tired of talking, Horatio. Maybe it's best for you to leave."

Those deep blue eyes of his stared into her own. Was she mistaken in thinking that there was a hint of passion in them?

"I don't think leaving you on your own is such a good idea, Catherine."

"I can look after myself!" she shot back, trying to make her way past Horatio but finding herself blocked at each attempt.

"Like you did against your husband and the Fosdicks?" Horatio's face clearly displayed how frustrated Catherine's belligerence was making him.

"You know nothing about me. Now get out of my way!"

This time, Catherine raised her hands to push at Horatio's chest, yet he caught her wrists easily, watching her intently as her face flushed with anger and her breath came in short bursts.

"I know more about you than you think," Horatio said, his voice low as he maintained close proximity with Catherine. "I know that there's a man out there who is obsessed with you and is willing to kill innocent people to send you a message. I know you and your husband got mixed up in some pretty dark things and now it's come back to bite you. You brought this to _my _city, Catherine. I'm going to deal with this whether you like it or not."

"You arrogant bastard – "

Before either of them were fully cognizant of what was happening, they found themselves locked in a passionate embrace as anger, lust and frustration lit a spark between them. Hands clawed at clothes as both Catherine and Horatio lost themselves to the moment.

It took Catherine by surprise as to just how passionate the seemingly straight-laced lieutenant could be. Despite his forcefulness, there was also a sense of tenderness as he held her close and kissed her. Horatio Caine was something of a paradox and it both scared and excited her in equal measure. He was strong yet gentle, forceful yet tender, determined yet sympathetic to the needs of others. It was a highly intoxicating combination and one that Catherine was finding hard to resist.

Losing herself in the moment, Catherine was shocked when Horatio pulled away from her suddenly, the clouds of passion quickly dying in his eyes. "Catherine – "

"What's wrong? I thought you wanted this?"

Horatio closed his eyes, letting out a frustrated breath. "I do, but we….we can't do this. I'm working a case and I can't be involved with the woman at the center of it."

"Why not?" Catherine retorted, her hands upon her hips.

"I have to focus, Catherine. I can't do that if we're doing... _this_."

"And what is _this_?"

Horatio shook his head. "I don't know, but whatever it is, it has to stop now."

"Horatio – " Catherine called out, but it was too late, he'd bolted from the room quickly, the door slamming closed behind him.

Raising her hand to her lips, she touched them gently as her mind recalled the heady sensations of Horatio kissing her only moments before. More than the anger and passion that he brought out in her, Catherine felt one thing above everything else: a sense of bewilderment at what had just happened.

_**To be continued.**_


	12. Chapter 12

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Twelve – Remembrance and Regrets

Horatio sat in his car, angrily drumming his fingertips against the steering wheel. The object of his anger? Himself.

_What the hell was that all about?_ he wondered, staring at the hotel he'd just left. If there was anything Horatio hated, it was losing control of a situation – and that's just what he'd allowed to happen in Catherine's room.

_What was I thinking?_

But that's the problem: he hadn't been _thinking_ about anything! He'd been _reacting_. Reacting to a pretty girl in a snug sweater like he was some love-starved teenager too long denied physical release.

One thing for certain Horatio knew: it was unwise for a cop to ever let his personal feelings intrude in a case. If you wanted to be effective, you had to be objective – and it's hard to remain objective when your feelings are involved.

He'd learned that the hard way. A bitter feeling coursed through him as he recalled his ex-wife, Rachel. Like him, she'd been a cop with the NYPD. They immediately clicked when they'd started working together, and it wasn't long before they were involved – and then came marriage. After a year, they knew they'd made a mistake, but they held on longer than they should have. It was an unhappy marriage and an even unhappier work situation.

It was one of the reasons he'd left New York. Miami seemed a million miles away from the drab unhappiness of his former city, his stalled career and a miserable marriage.

From the start, something had attracted him to Catherine. In spite of their differences, he'd felt drawn to her. But something inside him, something honest, made him wonder if the attraction wasn't a case of 'just making do.' The thought made him uncomfortable.

The attraction, the electricity, was there... but something was missing. Not that his hormones cared about the distinction.

Catherine was something new for Horatio - someone unique. Certainly not the type of woman who'd normally attract him.

She was earnest, sometimes too earnest. He appreciated that she wanted to help others, but he was uncomfortable with the preachy aspect of the little kitchen she ran and the way she attempted to play down her good looks. Nun-like women weren't his style – or women who dressed too soberly. He always wondered what they were hiding - not physically, but emotionally.

He wasn't sure who had shown up earlier when he entered Catherine's hotel room. One thing was certain: she wasn't playing the nun then. She was dressed to impress, and boy had she ever! The change had been unsettling. It was too sudden. He hadn't been prepared for the transformation in her demeanor. He'd come for answers about Barton, not an afternoon of play.

What Catherine eventually shared about her ex-husband and his playmate, Faith, had disturbed Horatio greatly.

He understood now why Catherine hid herself away. Even so, he wondered at the fear Barton was able to provoke in her. Was he really that fearsome or were Catherine's memories making him seem larger than he really was? He also wondered if the pills at Emerson Fosdick's little get-togethers had anything to do with Catherine's bizarre accounting of what had gone on. How many pills had she been forced to ingest during those strange little soirees? Were her memories even reliable?

Well, the only way to find out was to see Barton for himself, and that's just what he planned to do.

Thinking again of Catherine's behavior, Horatio frowned. It had been so odd, so out of character… almost as if she wanted to seduce him. The combativeness had been new, too. Prior to today, she'd been dove-like, willing to listen, to answer his questions, even if reluctantly. Today she'd thrown her frustration and anger in his face. She'd challenged him!

And he'd liked it.

It answered something primitive inside him. Something he wasn't sure he was comfortable with. He had impulsively pulled her close, kissed her – and he'd wanted to do more…

He'd acted like a rookie with his first case, allowing feelings to overwhelm good judgment. _He knew better than that!_

Since he first took responsibility for his team, he'd fought to keep his personal feelings separate from the job. A passionate man by nature, he fought hard for control, refusing to get involved with the women he met in his line of work – victims or colleagues. It was his preferred method of operation, and except for the night of Speed's death, he'd held to it – no matter how much it cost him.

_And it had cost him a lot._

He thought suddenly of Calleigh.

Another impulsive embrace, one from several years ago. The memory of that embrace and what followed still bit him at times. Perhaps that's why he so often tamped down his feelings, refusing to remember things said and felt, especially now when he saw her with Eric.

Sad, Horatio looked at his fingertips and stilled their tattoo against the steering wheel.

Thinking about the past and what might have been was not a line of thought Horatio was keen on pursuing.

He mentally pushed aside thoughts of yesteryear.

Besides, why was he thinking about Calleigh, especially now, after having almost bedded Catherine? There was no connection…

Was there?

_Pal, you better figure out what this is all about – something's not right here_.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts and then picked up his cell phone. Impatiently, he waited through several rings before getting Frank's voicemail.

_**THIS IS FRANK TRIP. IF YOU'RE TRYING TO REACH ME, YOU'D BETTER HAVE A DAMNED GOOD REASON. YOU KNOW THE DRILL – LEAVE A MESSAGE.**_

Momentarily diverted, Horatio grinned, listening to his grumpy friend's recording. It was classic Tripp.

"Francis, call me – sooner rather than later. I think I've sent you into the lion's den without a sword. I want to talk to you about Mrs. Fosdick."

Horatio tossed the phone onto the seat beside him where it began to buzz. Retrieving it, he quickly answered. "Frank?"

"Not even close."

The vision of the green-eyed blonde appeared in his mind as he listened to her voice, and Horatio smiled. "Ma'am. You've got something for me?"

"Horatio, Eric and I've just finished interviewing Jenna Brunswick. It was… interesting."

The tone of Calleigh's voice told him at once that something wasn't quite right. "How so?"

"She had some odd things to say about Joe Barton… are you still going to see him today?"

"That's the plan. What did Brunswick have to say?"

"Well, the night she met Barton, she was working the bar at the Alahambra. Initially, she found him attractive. Charming. He told her he was a widower and that she reminded him of his wife. She admitted she found the reminiscing about his wife touching. She got the impression that he was lonely, and was still missing her."

"Yeah, I'll bet…"

"Horatio, maybe it's a woman's maternal instinct, wanting to comfort someone who seems hurt. Maybe that's why she first found him attractive. We women… well, we're like that – we are touched sometimes by need…"

_Is that what you felt for me, sweetheart, that night in front of Speed's locker? My need?_

He quickly dropped the thought, and forced his attention back to what Calleigh was saying.

"Anyway, after she got off work, he confronted her in a parking lot. She didn't hear him approach until he was almost on top of her. That spooked her. But when she turned around and saw it was her 'friend' from the bar, she was relieved. Then he got rough with her.

"She said he quickly transformed from the charming, attractive guy she'd been speaking with in the bar into something else, and he shoved her against the car. That's when he tried to strangle her."

Horatio waited for Calleigh to continue, but she seemed reluctant to go on. "Calleigh, you're not giving me anything I didn't get from reading the police report. What aren't you telling me?"

She hesitated for a heartbeat. "There were… voices."

Horatio's brows drew together as he tried to figure out what she meant. "Voices? Whose?"

"Barton's. According to Brunswick, when he turned on her, he became very excited and seemed to morph into something else. It wasn't just his manner that frightened her; it was his voice. I mean voices. _Plural_. Brunswick said she heard more than one voice coming from his mouth. She was very insistent on that point. The memory of it upset her."

"Hysteria," said Horatio. "She probably imagined it in her distress."

"That's what Eric says…" Calleigh's voice trailed off.

"But you're not buying it?"

She sighed. "I don't know, Horatio. She didn't seem the hysterical type to me. She was certainly upset while telling the story, and admitted she still experiences episodes of post-trauma. She told us the voices continue to haunt her dreams. She believes Barton calls out to her at night…"

Horatio didn't say anything for a minute, trying to assess the meaning of Calleigh's words. She was more bothered than she was letting on. At this point in their relationship, he knew Calleigh. He was attuned to her speech patterns, her feelings… there was something she wasn't saying.

"Spill it, sweetheart," he said.

He heard her take a deep breath. "Here's the thing, Horatio. When she hears Barton call out to her, it isn't _her _name he's using. She said the entire time he was choking her, he was calling her by another name."

Suddenly Horatio knew where this was going. His mouth dry, he had trouble getting the question out. "He called her _Catherine_, didn't he?"

"I'm sorry, Horatio… I hate having to tell you that... I know you have feelings for her… "

For a moment Horatio couldn't speak. He leaned his head back against the car seat, his eyes closed.

"Horatio?"

Calleigh's voice forced him back to what she was saying. "Barton goes after women who bear a strong resemblance to Catherine; he calls them by her name. That's a pretty clear-cut case of psychotic behavior, of obsession."

"Tell me, Calleigh, this thing about multiple voices… what do _you _think that's about?"

"Hmm, well…"

Horatio smiled slightly, imagining the blond ballistics expert chewing her lower lip as her mind ran through a host of possibilities. Finally she spoke.

"I don't know… To tell you the truth, if I hadn't been the one to interview Brunswick, I, too, would probably have dismissed the stuff about voices as hysteria. But, Horatio, while she was telling us the story, her eyes kept darting around the room. I kinda got the feeling she feared that even speaking about Barton might cause him to appear. She's clearly frightened of him."

"That's natural – he nearly killed her. It doesn't matter if he's locked away or not. She's going to be frightened." He thought of Catherine, and something pricked the edges of his mind, something he couldn't quite put together.

"Maybe," said Calleigh doubtfully. "Has Catherine ever said anything about Barton's voice sounding strange?"

Horatio thought about it. "No…"

"Maybe you should ask her about it."

"Maybe I should," he agreed, "but I think I'll see Barton first, draw my own conclusions. Catherine is as frightened of Barton as Brunswick. I want to see this bastard for myself. I want to know just what it is about him that provokes such fear."

He rubbed a hand across his eyes, suddenly tired. "Have you been able to contact Barton's mother yet?"

"Eric is trying to reach her now. The plan is to visit her."

"Today, Calleigh. I want to know what she has to say about her son. Something Catherine once said leads me to believe that he and _mama_ may not be on the best of terms."

"Okay, boss, we're on it." She paused. "Horatio…"

"Yes?"

"Be careful," she said softly. "I don't have a good feeling about this and I can't explain why. I can interview Barton's mother on my own… shall I send Eric to meet you? I'd feel better if you didn't go in there by yourself..."

"Not necessary," he laughed. "Barton is in a maximum security facility. There will be a guard in the room at all times. No need to worry. But thanks for the concern."

"Always," she said, her voice quiet.

After a second, Calleigh terminated the call, and Horatio put the phone down. His heart repeated the foolish little word.

_Always._

Just one word – and melancholy washed over him.

Only one word, and that quickly, all of Horatio's efforts at forgetting the past came to nothing. His thoughts drifted back in time.

* * *

><p><em>He stood in front of Speed's locker, performing a task he never expected or wanted. <em>

_Speed was dead, and Horatio Caine would never be the same. Something inside whispered that he'd crossed a line and would never again be the man he once was._

_He felt Speed's death keenly. __Why hadn't he been firmer with him? He'd been too easy on him about the maintenance of his gun. Subtlety often escaped Speed. Horatio knew that! Only weeks ago, he'd gifted him with a gun cleaning kit. It was a message, one he assumed Speed understood._

_So much for assumptions._

_Oh, Speed! _

_The memory of kneeling by his friend's twitching body, seeing the panic in his eyes as he went through the death throes… it would be with him forever. So would the memory of the warm blood that settled against his face as he listened for some sign of life in the stilled body._

_The guilt choked him. He chastised himself for not being more insistent with him about maintaining his weapon in good working condition. _

_He was the leader! He was responsible for Speed, for his team. It was his duty to step up to the plate when they were in error and straighten them out. Instead… instead he'd given him a gun cleaning kit!_

_Christ…_

_He'd almost finished going through Speed's things when Calleigh approached, the ballistics report in hand. They went through it together. And together they'd come to a conclusion that still honored their friend, allowing for possibilities if not probabilities._

_The weapon could have malfunctioned._

_Horatio tried to believe it._

_He looked into Calleigh's eyes and saw the same desire to believe. He saw something else there, too - something that reached out to him, pulling him from despair. She needed him and he needed her. It was as simple and as complicated as that. _

_And in that moment, he didn't give a damn about all his past resolutions about keeping his heart out of the work place. Not then… not there. Not with Calleigh._

_Pulling her close, inhaling the scent of her hair, he molded the length and curves of her body close to his. God, it had felt so good, so right… There wasn't an inch of space where their bodies weren't touching. She melted into him, fitting her body to his. It felt as though she'd been created just for him, as if it had always been meant to be this way._

_He realized he was murmuring her name. "Calleigh, Calleigh…" Like a sweet benediction, he couldn't stop repeating it. She was his lifeline... "Calleigh."_

_Finally, she broke away and looked into his eyes. "Come home with me tonight, Horatio… please… I can't be alone…"_

* * *

><p>Horatio stared out the car's windshield, not seeing the hotel or its grounds or the street where he sat parked.<p>

He remembered waking the next morning, her body curled next to his. He'd kissed her forehead lightly and heard her sigh. She'd touched his lips with her slim fingers and murmured, "I'll always remember last night, Horatio… always…"

_Always_.

Horatio slowly put the key into the car's ignition.

He didn't want think about this now, but couldn't seem to stop. _What was happening to him? Where was his control?_

He didn't want to remember what had happened after that night, the cowardly way in which he'd kept away from her, trying to distance himself. He'd been too afraid of his feelings to confront them. He didn't want the complication in his life.

He'd been a coward – and when he'd finally worked up the courage to tell Calleigh how he felt, it was too late.

Convinced he didn't care, two years later she admitted to him she was seeing Eric.

_But you never told her how you felt! You let her go, you coward! If you had told her, she wouldn't have gone to Eric. You know that! Things could have been so different!_

But no - he'd listened to her admission and held his tongue, keeping his heart a closed book.

And now? That boat had sailed. He knew it in his heart.

Besides, she was good for Eric.

_Yeah, but is Eric good for her? _

Horatio didn't want to think about that. He tried not to think about the looks Calleigh sometimes gave him.

Like Horatio with Catherine, was Calleigh also 'just making do?'

Feeling guilty, he thought of Eric and banished the traitorous thoughts from his head. Eric was trying to prove himself to Calleigh, to do the right thing... but can a leopard change his spots?

He had to stop thinking about what might have been.

He had a job to do.

_This is what happens when you let memories intrude, when you let your control slip._

You get distracted.

He'd learned that a long time ago. He needed to get hold of himself. He needed to figure out what was going on with Catherine, why she'd acted so differently today.

Out of the blue, something Calleigh's father once said came to mind.

* * *

><p><em>He and Calleigh had been working late, going over a case in the lab, when Calleigh got the call that her old man had had a few too many and was too inebriated to make it home on his own. This was not the first time that Calleigh had gotten a call like this, and he watched her eyes darken with concern as she told the caller she'd be there shortly.<em>

_She'd looked at Horatio apologetically and said she had to go. Ignoring her protests that she could handle her father without help, Horatio had insisted on accompanying her._

_He knew a lot about drunken fathers… had a personal history with one._

_But Calleigh's old man had been a revelation to him. Instead of being a mean, violent drunkard like Horatio's old man, Kenwall Duquesne had been a charming, penitent drunk._

_Horatio had watched Calleigh patiently encourage her father to get into the backseat of the car. She'd been gentle with him, tolerant of his drunken clumsiness._

_It was while watching Calleigh with her father that Horatio realized he loved her. He loved her courage, her kindness, her forgiving nature. He finally saw her clearly._

_She was more than the 'sunshine girl' the team had dubbed her. She was a brave woman who kept her sorrows to herself, who refused to acknowledge them publicly. She was not one to seek pity or consolation. _

_For the first time, Horatio understood that it was not her beloved guns that were her weapon against the world; it was her brilliant smile, which kept people from looking too closely at the vulnerable person who hid behind it._

_She had glanced up at him and caught him looking at her. Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his eyes because she smiled sadly while a blush traveled across her cheeks. "Everyone has their own sorrow to bear, Horatio."_

_If anyone understood that, it was the intensely private Horatio Caine._

_After they'd gotten him settled, Kenwall looked at Horatio and offered a slurred apology._

_"I'm not always like this, lieutenant. You can ask Calleigh… Sometimes life just scares me. It's too real… and that's when I get to drinking… I can't handle bad memories._

_"I lost a baby girl once, did you know that? Calleigh had a little sister, died of heart trouble when she was just ten… I get to thinking about that sometimes; it gets me down. Scares me a little, too. And so I get to drinking…"_

_"Daddy, you can't dwell on the past," said Calleigh, buckling his seatbelt. "You can't let the sadness scare you…"_

_"I know, lambchop, but I'm not strong like you. The bourbon… it makes me strong. Helps me face what I can't face when I'm sober…"_

* * *

><p>Horatio sat up straight in the car seat, realizing suddenly what had been circling the edges of his thoughts since the encounter in Catherine's room.<p>

_Had she been drinking?_

He hadn't noticed any alcohol or her breath and yet…

She had displayed a false courage that only now occurred to him. The clothing, the makeup, the attempt at seduction, the combativeness... _Like Kenwall, was Catherine using alcohol to face something she couldn't face when sober?_

The thought cleared his head of old memories and he looked at his watch. It was time to meet the man who was the object of Catherine's fears and Jenna Brunswick's nightmares.

He pulled away from the hotel, determined to get to the bottom of things.

**_To be continued..._**


	13. Chapter 13

**Heartless **

Chapter 13 - The Power of Legion  
><span>

A smug grin crossed Josiah Barton's face as he sat in his jail cell. He could hear the heavy footsteps of Jack Tolliver diminish as the overweight prison guard shuffled back to the safety of his office. Inmates of the Miami Dade Correctional Facility considered Tolliver untouchable and it was gratifying for Josiah to know that he alone had the ability to unnerve the seemingly fearless man.

Tolliver had sauntered up to his cell to inform him that two people had submitted requests for visitation. That took him by surprise - Faith had been the only person to visit him since his incarceration - he knew of no other person who would have reason to do so.

_Lockhart, perhaps?_

He considered it momentarily before dismissing the idea. Lockhart knew better than to make contact, especially in a manner that could so easily be traced. Tolliver had stood in front of his cell, seeming to revel in the fact that he knew something that the other man didn't. It would not be long before Fat Jack Tolliver spilled his guts and, based on the information that Tolliver would impart, he might just let the man keep his innards where they were.

"Aren't you a popular lad, my dearie," Tolliver remarked, admiring his well-kept nails and cuticles, giving the impression that the prisoner before him didn't bother him.

Barton did not move, not even raising his eyes to the prison guard. He stayed exactly where he was, sitting up straight on the side of his cot, staring at nothing but the blank gray wall ahead of him. "Good afternoon, Mr Tolliver."

Barton's voice was devoid of emotion. Yet something about Barton caused Tolliver to feel almost afraid to be in the same space as the convicted criminal. Hiding behind the kind of bluster he was known for, Tolliver tried to give as good as he got. "I've just spoken to the prison warden, it seems you have some visitors lined up. Now who might they be?"

Tolliver lightly tapped a finger against his chin, a mocking display of considering the answer to his own question. It was wasted on Barton, who continued to look straight ahead.

"You don't want to know who they are?" Tolliver goaded.

Barton remained unmoved. "I already know, Mr Tolliver."

Humans were fallible and easy to bluff. Tolliver would tell him what he needed to know and the fat man would be none the wiser as to what he'd done. Humans were such simple creatures.

The comment seemed to unnerve Tolliver, who took a small step back from the metal bars of the prison cell. "You do? How?"

This time, Barton's head moved, as quick as if he were a snake pouncing on an unsuspecting prey. Those pale blue, almost colourless eyes found their target as Barton pinned Tolliver with a stare. "You have relayed the message, Mr Tolliver. Now it is time for you to leave."

Barton returned to staring at the wall, hearing Tolliver's parting words. "Then you'll also know that I'll be sitting in on your visit with the good police lieutenant. We wouldn't want either of you to come to any harm now, would we?"

Waiting until Tolliver had moved away from his cell, Barton allowed himself to be at one with the voices inside, communicating in a way that no human could ever understand. There were many voices, but only one loud enough to be heard over the panicked din of those trapped within. Feeling his strength building from inside, Josiah Barton silenced the voices with a mere thought, tinged with a very real threat.

One visitor would be Faith, he was sure of it, yet the other intrigued him. Tolliver had mentioned a police lieutenant, perhaps Catherine had received his message already?

_Catherine, Catherine….you always did have such a lovely mouth. Have you been telling others about us, my love?_

It was reasonable to assume that Catherine had spoken to the police, firstly about the dead body of a woman near her church and secondly about the special Valentine's gift that he'd sent her. The thought of a visit from the police did not bother him. His powers reached far beyond those of silly men and their futile weaponry. Nothing of this earth could harm him, of that he was certain.

After all, he was more than Barton.

He was Legion. His body was nothing more than a shell, a means to an end. The human body aged with time, the passing of years causing muscle and bones to weaken and break down. This body was young, strong and vital, and combined with the true essence inside him, the entire Miami Dade police force would be no match for him.

He knew it was so, having experienced the demise of Emerson Fosdick, a man who was once so strong, full of energy and exuberance. The passing of time had made the body of Emerson grow weaker until it was no longer able to do what was required of it. Each transference made Legion stronger, yet the body he inhabited aged far quicker than that of any normal human being. Emerson had been sick, his body unable to fight off the cancer that was consuming him from inside. Emerson's body, like those of so many before him, would not last forever.

Legion knew that he would need to find a new vessel, before his essence became trapped in a body that would no longer follow his commands. As soon as they had set eyes on the body of Josiah Barton, they knew they'd found the perfect candidate. The process was slow at first, until the time was right for the transference to take place.

Despite the initial discomfort of becoming accustomed to a new body, inhabiting this new vessel had been relatively easy. The weak owner of his corporeal shell had not put up much of a fight, submitting after only a few days before vanishing into silence.

This body was strong and would sustain him through the many trials that were to come. This essence was not made for being bound by such physical restrictions and the need to move freely was strong. With each new body he inhabited, the voices within grew stronger, becoming subservient together to Legion.

With each new soul he came into contact with, Legion took on their life force as well as their memories and emotions, bending them to his own will, feeding off of the panic and fear they generated, amassing great knowledge as well as immense power along the way.

He felt nothing as the body of Emerson Fosdick withered before his eyes, having already transferred himself into the body of Josiah Barton, a man who hadn't seen what was coming before it was too late. He cared little for the soul of his current vessel, yet the woman he'd brought to the Fosdick house had intrigued Legion from the beginning.

Both he and Faith had seen something in Catherine Barton from the moment she'd entered the house, making the prospect of taking over the body and mind of Josiah Barton even more exciting. Joe Barton was a weak-willed man, too consumed with power and social standing to understand what was happening before his own eyes. All it had taken was a little gentle persuasion and a touch of chemical relaxation before he and Faith had the man worshipping their every word.

Barton had put up little resistance when the transference took place, the man's last thought that of his wife before he'd been silenced by the power of Legion. Accessing the man's memories and emotions, each one of them led back to Catherine, so much so that it became Legion's primary focus. Catherine Barton was the key and they would have her, they would reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

It had always been this way. The power within Legion demanded no less when it came to acquiring that which he desired. Nothing would stand in his way. He would have Catherine and do with her as he pleased. He would toy with her at first, taking delight in the fear his actions had generated in her.

It was logical to assume that Catherine had been so affected by the message relayed that she would have called the authorities. It was a matter of time before the police made the connection between the body of the dead girl and the message sent to Catherine. Far from being concerned, the police and their involvement would make the game much more satisfying when the power of Legion was finally unleashed.

Faith would soon visit and between them they would begin planning the next phase. Things were moving along at a pace that was pleasing to him. Too slow and he would become bored, but not so fast that his hunger and gratification could not be sated. Like a game of chess, they would move those involved like pawns until he and his deadly queen would strike in a move so brutal and unexpected that even the strongest of men would yield to their indomitable force.

Faith Fosdick had always been a source of great enjoyment for him, their relationship undefined yet undeniably important to them both. Having seen the growth of Faith from a child, one who seemed devoid of the innocence of others her age, to a woman of great power and influence, her presence during his existence had become something much more than a mutually beneficial working relationship.

He could not feel love, such human emotions were meaningless against the power of Legion. Yet there was something about Faith that drew him toward her and had from the moment he'd set eyes on her. Though she was no more than a child, something in her soulless nature spoke to Legion, urging him to follow the young girl, guiding her progress from afar until the time was right for him to approach.

From the moment that he had watched the little girl rip the wings from an injured bird before wringing its neck with her hands, he knew he'd found a mortal who could join with him, and accompany him on his quest to achieve that which must be done. Legion was not made for this earth, but his purpose here was clear and Faith would be an integral part of that plan.

There had been a time when they had become lovers through the body of Emerson Fosdick, a man whose movie-star good looks and love of a hedonistic lifestyle had made him easy prey. Faith had been unsure at first, having intimated that she felt something akin to love for the weak-willed Emerson. His promise Emerson would remain his primary vessel has eased Faith's reservations.

Humans and their emotions were beneath Legion, yet there was something about Faith that made him to want to please her. She had always been such a faithful servant, meeting his needs and doing as he asked, completing tasks that he could not. Emerson's body had been strong and youthful when Legion had taken possession of it. His essence inside Emerson's human shell had made the man even more alluring to Faith and Legion had permitted her to give into her carnal desires.

Sexual intercourse had no meaning or benefit to him, yet it delighted him to see the flames of passion in Faith's eyes as she rode him, throwing her head back in pleasure. Humans were such simple creatures, something that he'd figured out far before he'd ever crossed paths with Faith. Giving a little to Faith ensured that he gained much more in return.

There were times when Legion considered that Faith was as equally soulless as he. Having witnessed first-hand the things she was capable of, it reminded him of no other human he'd ever come into contact with. Throughout his existence he'd met others similar to Faith but no one quite like her. Nothing was off limits with Faith, she would do whatever it took to accomplish that which needed to be done.

It had been for that very reason that he had decided to imbue Faith with some of the essence that made Legion such a powerful force. Though the human body of Faith Fosdick aged, it would be guaranteed that he would find another suitable vessel for her soul when her current body could no longer meet the needs desired from it.

Despite Faith's eagerness to be transformed from a mere mortal, he had made it clear that the process of her change would be a gradual one. Having waited for so long to find a suitable companion, it was imperative that not even the smallest chance of something going wrong could occur. Faith was far too important in Legion's plan for things to go awry at such a late stage.

Between them they would rule over all that they desired, wreaking the kind of havoc that would cause weak and petty humans to cower in fear. Faith Fosdick was more important than she realised, her presence completed Legion, made the power they held that much more potent. Though Legion was strong in its own right, combining with Faith and the influence she inspired in those around her make them an unstoppable and irresistible force.

The way Faith's eyes had lit in pleasure as he began the change process within her had made him feel something akin to the human emotion of happiness. Legion felt no emotion, the only experience of them being through the memories and emotions of his human vessels, yet something within him felt a sense of pleasure at observing the small changes in Faith that would soon make her soul immortal. Soon, together, they would be able to do as they pleased, revelling and dancing in the blood of mere mortals who had dared to stand before the power of Legion.

The changes in Faith would have to move slowly, any significant changes would cause alarm to those around her. The process of changing Faith into something not quite of this world had to be done gradually to ensure that suspicion of those around Faith were not aroused.

Aroused. It had been a feeling such as this that Legion had experienced when Faith's eyes had changed for the first time. When asked what she would like to embody, her response had come from instinct. Faith had always had a fascination with snakes and it had been this slithering and cold-blooded creature that she'd decided to unite with. To Legion it was a perfect choice, there had always been something serpentine about the alluring Faith Fosdick.

Those eyes, those eyes of Faith's as they changed from their human orbs into the yellowing, sharp eyes of a snake had sent a thrill through Legion, knowing it would only be a matter of time before Faith could join him on this journey and forever be united with the power of Legion.

Faith had questioned the logic of Legion when he had allowed this mortal body to be arrested and incarcerated inside the dank surroundings of the Miami Dade Correctional Facility, but the truth had been that he'd expended too much power in granting Faith her heart's desire. Legion's reserves had been tapped almost to empty, leaving him weakened and vulnerable, yet Faith could never know of the true cost of her eternal existence.

The power of Legion had always been drawn from fear and it had been that need for power which had drawn Legion to attack the young Jenna Brunswick. For one moment, one moment in which Legion had shown poor judgement, he had attacked the girl for no other reason than that his reserves were so low, leaving him desperate to replenish that which he had recently lost in the process of making Faith his eternal companion.

The girl had also looked like Catherine and it had been the image of Josiah Barton's wife that had compelled him to choose Jenna Brunswick to have his way with. It had been Legion's plan to feast on her fear before killing her, but the young girl had sensed his weakness and made an escape. Weakened as he was, Legion knew that the time was not right to reveal his true identity to this mortal world. There was no other choice but to bide time and wait for circumstances to fall into place.

And fall into place they would. Time on Earth had no real meaning to Legion and as long as his current vessel could sustain him, time was on his side. When the opportunity presented itself, Legion would strike and break free from the flimsy cage that these stupid humans believed could contain such a being as he.

Having feasted on the fears of the inmates of the facility, Legion's power began to grow and he had experienced an increasing sense of strength in recent weeks. As the fear of those around him increased, so did his power. Catherine had received his message, Legion could almost taste the fear and panic emanating from her human body, seeping from her pores and soaking into his own like a sponge in water.

Let the Miami Dade Police Department send whoever they wanted, they would be no match for Legion. Anyone who dared stand in his way would be crushed as if they were nothing more than an ant beneath his boot.

The thought of crushing simple humans brought a smile to Legion's face as he sat straight on his cot, hearing the heavy footsteps of Fat Jack Tolliver once more making their way toward his cell.

"Your visitor is here, dearie. Come and say hello to Lieutenant Caine."

* * *

><p>"You ok, Cal?"<p>

Eric's soft voice roused Calleigh from her thoughts – had her expression given her away?

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the uneasy feeling she had about Horatio. He'd sounded strange on the phone, nothing like his usual self and it had disquieted her.

"Just updating Horatio on our chat with Jenna Brunswick," Calleigh smiled, placing her phone down on the work station, turning it absent-mindedly as she thought over the conversation she'd just had

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they'd been dating for so long, but Eric could tell that something wasn't right.

"And?" he prodded, moving closer to her.

"And nothing," Calleigh replied, plastering a smile on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes. Eric continued to look at her, she knew he wouldn't stop until she'd told him. "I'm worried about Horatio," she admitted finally.

Eric felt a sharp pain lance through his chest, he and Horatio were tight but there was something about Calleigh that brought out a jealous streak in him. Rational or not, Eric's pride would dictate that the only man Calleigh should care about was him.

"You know what H is like," Eric responded, shrugging his shoulders, "He'll be fine."

Eric's words of encouragement had little effect in Calleigh. "There's something….I don't know….malevolent about Barton. There's more to him than meets the eye; I don't think Horatio's fully prepared for meeting with him."

"Horatio's on his way to visit with Barton?"

Calleigh nodded her head, returning to spinning her phone slowly. "He wants us to visit with Barton's mother while he's at the prison."

Eric smiled, feeling relief wash over him. Removing Calleigh from the lab would be a good way to distract her from her concern for Horatio. "You fancy a road trip then?" he smiled at her, raising an eyebrow suggestively, his heart sinking as he saw her conflicted expression.

Calleigh shook her head. "Something doesn't feel right, Eric. I get the feeling that Horatio's going to get more than he bargained for meeting with Joe. Maybe one of us should go with him."

Eric felt his temper flaring, unable to keep a lid on his emotions. Maybe his initial thought was right, what if Calleigh was harboring feelings for Horatio, what if there was more to their relationship than just a close friendship?

"Ok, I get it. I'll go visit Barton's mother while you do whatever it is that you've got to do here," Eric gestured dismissively before crossing his arms over his chest.

"Eric, wait."

Either not hearing her or ignoring her, Eric stalked away.

_**To be continued.**_


End file.
